


If you just dig

by Meme_Cracra



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mild Gore, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:01:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29377497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meme_Cracra/pseuds/Meme_Cracra
Summary: As he watches his blood slowly dripping on the ground, Jaskier wonders. Had he known how it would end, would he have done things differently ?Would he still have spent half of his life trailing after a witcher that did not love him as he wished, travelling the Continent to sing his praise to every willing ear ?Unbidden, the memory of Geralt’s face, sheepishly smiling as he receives a small bouquet of wildflower flashes in his mind and he knows. It might have taken him long to get here but one thing is for sure. Despite the hardships and the pain, he knows. It was all worth it.Or as he is facing what could very well be his last moment, Jaskier thinks back on his life and his journey through self discovery
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 51
Kudos: 186





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone ! 
> 
> Seems like I'm back at it :) This story should be 8 chapters long and is mostly already finished (still working on the final bits).  
> As always, please keep in mind that I'm not a native english speaker, do feel free to let me know in the comments if anything sounds too strange :D
> 
> Like most writters, I live for kudos and comments both, I'd love to read your thoughts on this work <3
> 
> Bonne lecture !

The tent’s opening flaps weakly in the evening wind after the soldier. Through his swollen eyes, Jaskier can still see the shadows of the guards standing sentry by the entrance of his prison, preventing any escape attempt. Not that he could do much escaping right now. Hands tied above his head by heavy iron chains to the tent’s central pillar, weakened by exhaustion and starvation, there is very little chance that Jaskier can manage to get out of his bounds, much less out of the tent before someone notices. 

The cut on his forehead throbs to the rhythm of his heart, blood still flowing from the wound and onto his face. As he watches his blood slowly dripping on the ground, Jaskier wonders. Had he known how it would end, would he have done things differently ? 

Would he still have spent half of his life trailing after a witcher that did not love him as he wished, travelling the Continent to sing his praise to every willing ear ? Or would he have settled down in one of the many courts he’d been offered a place at ? Would he have even become a bard in the first place ?

He’s maudling he knows, but Jaskier kinda feels he is entitled to it given the circumstances. Night is quickly falling and the cold air settles deeper and deeper in his abused flesh. He feels himself starting to drift away, made lighter by every freezing breath, numbed by cold and fatigue. He needs the rest, Jaskier tells himself. He closes his eyes and lets his mind wander through disjointed memories, finding comfort in their warmth. Just for a second, he thinks, darkness slowly swallowing him whole. 

Just for a moment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The intro is so very small that I actually feel bad leaving you with only this to read. So here you guys go, chapter is out :D  
> 
> 
> TW : the paragraph starting and ending with "!!!" contains an attempted sexual assault. If this type of content might trigger you, please stay safe and skip it all together.

“When I discover who I am, I’ll be free.”  
― Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man 

As a kid, there are many things Julian doesn’t understand.

At first, he doesn’t know why, unlike most of the other kids he plays with in the street of Novigrad, he doesn’t seem to have parents. He has Madame Holly, who gives him chores and makes sure he eats his greens. He has Lotte and Yvonne and all the other girls working at the brothel, who are always taking care of him when they have some time in between clients. But he can’t remember if he ever had a mom or a dad of his own.

When he asks Madame Holly one evening, as they’re having dinner in her room like most days, her usual frown veils with sadness. He is still small enough that she can lift him effortlessly on her lap, and he snuggles up against her, almost disappearing in the folds of her exuberant peacock blue silk dress.

“Your mother used to work here. She was very young when we took her in but she had nowhere else to go.” She sighs, her heavy chest sagging. “We take care of our girls here. We teach them all we know and help them however we can. But it still happens that, sometimes, one gets pregnant. That’s what happened to your mom. She’s never been very healthy, always a bit too pale, too thin, catching all kinds of weird colds. But she always made up for it in stubbornness, that’s for sure,” Madame Holly chuckles, her deep voice rolling like thunder under his ear as she ruffles his hair playfully. “You certainly got that from her. She couldn’t wait to meet you. But her health caught up with her after she gave birth to you my boy, and she died.”

Julian nods silently, though he isn’t sure he understands it all perfectly. He knows what death is, has helped the cook catch the rats plaguing his pantry and has seen the man break their small necks. He knows there is no coming back from death. But it all seems too big an idea for him to fully comprehend yet. What he understands though is that he’ll never get to meet his mom, or his dad for that matter or surely Madame Holly would have mentioned him. He doesn’t know how that makes him feel but he is happy that he has Madame Holly still, so he kisses her goodnight and forgets all about it in a matter of days. 

&&

One other thing Julian doesn’t know is why exactly everything feels kind of off most days. 

He’ll be outside, in the middle of a game with his friends and he’ll hear a soft voice whispering from the river bank. And if he tilts his head just so, he’ll see a shimmer on the surface of the murky waters. And if he squints, he’ll start to see a shape beckoning to him into the depth of the Pontar. When he turns to his friends and asks them about it, they laugh at him, tell him he’s too old for imaginary friends now. The first few times he hears the voices, Julian insists, even gets in a fight once when a kid calls him crazy. He soon learns that no one else can perceive any of it and stops talking about it. 

He still hears it though, sees it too. Hiding high in the tree leaves, red glowing eyes blinking at him. Hooves, rhythmically resonating for hours in the empty streets under his room’s window. Gleeful chuckles following him throughout his day, laughing meanly at anyone missing a step on one of the many stairs of Novigrad. 

But for all that Julian is unsettled by these strange encounters, he is never scared. It sometimes feels comforting even, to catch the shifting lights from the corners of his eyes. At night, he likes to imagine that they are here for him, these weird friendly creatures looming in the shadows, mysterious protectors against unknown foes. He falls asleep creating all kinds of stories with them and is warmed by the thought that he may not have parents like everyone else, but only he has friends such as those. 

And if people look at him funny when he giggles with the voices only he can hear, if his smile tends to be too full of teeth and his eyes take on a strange sheen at dusk, well Julian is still too young to notice.

&&

As a boy, Julian doesn’t know much at all really. He wakes up, eats breakfast with everybody in the kitchen, does his chores and runs errands around Novigrad for La Maison Close, stopping to play with his friends whenever he can.

Until one day, Madame declares he is old enough to learn and he starts spending his days sitting in the lessons with the new girls. Their establishment isn’t just about carnal pleasure -whatever that means-, their teacher explains. It is first and foremost a place of art and beauty. The girls all have to learn how to read and write, but also how to draw, to dance and even to play an instrument. They are taught to be good conversationalists, are encouraged to read about as many subjects as they can so that they’ll always be able to entertain their visitors, whatever their interests may be. 

But more than anything else, they are instructed on how to listen for what their visitors leave unsaid, how to decipher their gestures and manners, what to look for all in order to become whatever their clients truly want. How to become a confidant, a caretaker or a lover in the blink of an eye. And Julian learns with them. 

He soaks it all up, is hardly ever seen without a book in hand once he's mastered reading, waltzing from room to room to a silent beat to repeat the steps of the last dance he’s just learned. Playing the meek little boy to the haughty noble from one minute to the next.

He takes to singing reluctantly at first, frustrated that his hands are not yet big enough to manage the wondrous instruments at his disposal. But Isold sweets talk him into singing for her while she plays and she is one of the nicest girl here so of course he says yes, though he asks for a hug first. 

It's a revelation. He can finally give shape to the rhythm that always thrums under his skin, the low hum of something that itches when he thinks about it too long. For weeks, he only speaks in songs, learns new lyrics every day. He stages his first concert, standing on the kitchen table under the indulgent and affectionate eyes of the Maison’s residents. And Julian may not know many things yet, but one thing he knows for sure is the bubbly effervescence of a happy childhood.

&&

All good things must come to an end, a most unhappy fellow once told Julian. He is ten now, and he is starting to think there is some truth to that statement. 

He is on his way back from an errand for Madame Holly when he hears the warning bells. He hurries back home, a strange anxiety slowly growing in his gut. He smells the smoke first. Soon he can also hear the groaning and splitting wood of a building burning. Following the flow of people rushing with buckets full of water, ignoring the calls for a mage all around, he runs. 

The inferno blazing through is home is unrelenting. The roof already caved under its assault, beams taking out pieces of the house with them as they fell. Screams can be heard from inside the house, but the fire is showing through the fractured windows on the ground floor. They cannot escape.

By the time a mage arrives and vanishes the flames, there is no one left to scream. 

Only four girls survive. Four girls and Julian of course. There is nothing left of La Maison Close. The empty broken shell that stands where his home used to be looms over him as he cries for Madame Holly and all the members of his unconventionally perfect family. He cries and cries until he has no tears left to shed. 

&&

Julian has seen beggars and homeless kids running barefoot in Novigrad before. He knows that poverty exists and that it has horrible consequences. He guesses he just never cared to know how these people came to be in this situation, nor how hard their life could be before he found himself in the same circumstance.

He knows good hiding spots from his years running around town and he soon finds shelter in an abandoned attic that can only be accessed directly from the rooftops. It’s drafty and cold but it’s much better than the sewers many live in. 

Finding food is much harder. He asks for scraps at the market at first but is always shooed away by merchants made apathetic to his pleas by years of hearing others like him. It is not long before hunger wins over any scruples he had and he starts stealing. Money, food or anything he can sell at the dodgy pawn shop near the east gate, he takes it all. He is tall for his age but still small enough to hide from the few that notice his robberies. Whenever he does get caught, he cries, plays the part of the desperate starving child -that he is in truth, but he refuses to acknowledge that- and, more often than not, he is released. He gets a few kicks from the meaner ones and he fights back as hard as he can, which is admittedly not very. 

All in all, Julian gets by and survives on his own. A few months down the line, he’s found a shelter and gets a steady, if of poor quality, amount of food. Now that he doesn’t have to worry too much about the rest, the loneliness is what eats at him. He’s always been surrounded by people, has never been truly alone in his life before. Now, even the lurking shadows and creepy laughs have stopped. He is alone and he hates it. 

He’s tried teaming up with other kids in the streets, but they’ve jumped him the moment he came back with the food they’d sent him to steal. There is an old beggar that gives him stuff whenever she sees him, but there is a strange glimmer in her eyes whenever their fingers touch that he doesn’t like. He doesn’t know who to trust, so he prefers not to trust anyone at all and remains desperately alone. 

&& !!!

There are moments scarier than others these days. He’s going back to his attic, pockets heavy with some bread and cheese he’s managed to steal from an unsuspecting lady at the market. He’s happy and distracted by his rumbling stomach, he doesn’t see the shadow approaching him. Julian turns into a small empty street.

He’s pushed against the wall, face pressed painfully against the rough bricks. He tries to twist away from the hands on his back until he feels the tip of a knife grazing his neck.

“You’ll keep still and take it nicely if you know what’s good for you.” 

Julian freezes. His heart races in his chest as the danger of the situation dawns on him. He hears the man behind him fumbling with his clothes as if pushing it away. Tears build in his eyes as disgust grows in his belly, he breathes too fast and feels dizzy. He can’t move, can’t even think clearly through the panic that’s overtaken him. 

It’s pure reflex that sends his elbow flying behind him and dumb luck that it hits the man right in the stomach. It’s not much but it’s enough to surprise and unbalance his aggressor. Julian pushes against the wall with all his might. The man, unsteady, falls on the ground, knife sent clattering on the cobbles. In the few seconds before Julian starts running, he sees his attacker. He’s one of the Knights of the Order of the Flaming Rose. But there’s no time to reflect on the hypocrisy of those that believe in the Eternal Fire right now and he runs, faster than he ever has, ignoring the screams ordering him to ‘Come back here you little shit’. 

Hidden away in his attic, curled into himself and concealed under all the blankets he’s managed to get his hands on, Julian can’t help but think that humans are much scarier than his childhood monsters ever were. 

&& !!!

His life gets turned around again two years later. Julian doesn’t see it coming at all. It starts with what he thinks is a typical robbery gone wrong.

A big bald man draped in richly embroidered velvet is walking toward the bathhouse, a fat purse dangling daringly on his hip. Julian has seen hundreds of men like him before, be it at La Maison Close or since. They are usually dumb and slow enough that by the time they realise what’s going on, he’s already dashing down the street with their things. This should be no different. Except of course it is.

The second his fingertips brush the purse, a heavy hand grips his wrist. He pulls at it, once, twice and when the hand tightens to the point of pain, he changes tactics. Julian raises huge wet frightened blue eyes and looks up at the man he just tried to rob. He lets a tear fall down his cheek and makes himself as small and non threatening as possible.

“Please”, he begs in a wobbly voice. “Please let me go.”

Despite Julian’s acting prowess, the man seems unmoved, his frown deepening even. Cursing his bad luck, the boy drops his act and lunges at him. Surprised by the sudden shift in mood, the man lets go of him and steps back. Julian sees his chance to run and sprints towards the nearest alley. He doesn’t stop until he’s crossed half the city, taking every turn he can to throw his pursuer off. He goes back home empty handed but safe at least. Or so he thinks at first.

He starts feeling eyes on him the next day. He can’t exactly pinpoint where this feeling comes from, but he’s sure someone is watching him all day. He tries to look for anyone following him, takes the most complicated paths through the city but he can’t seem to shake it off. The eyes are still here.

Paranoia stops him from going to his attic and he spends the next couple nights in other hideouts he discovered in the past years. At some point, the feeling stops. He breathes more freely but stays careful. He goes back to his usual routine, pickpocketing the passerby, singing at the marketplace for a few coins and doing the odd job to earn his dinner here and there, always keeping an eye out. 

Julian is exhausted by the previous sleepless nights and that makes him sloppy. He gets caught by the guards as he steals a purse in the market. He tries to run but their grips on his shoulders are painfully strong. On their way to the guards post, just as he is about to resign himself to receiving whatever punishment they deem fit, two men come out of a small alley. The closest one hands out a letter to one of the guards. Julian is confused but he sees his chance to run and takes it.

He suddenly dashes back the way they came. But despite his best efforts, Julian is stopped right away by a man that had crept up behind him as he’d watched the exchange. Before he even realises his failure, the man has already pressed a strangely smelling rag on his face and everything fades to black. 

He wakes up slowly, still groggy from whatever drug they’d made him breath. Awkwardly, he opens his eyes and looks around. He is in what looks to be either an office or a library, bookshelves covering the walls floor to ceiling. He was put down on a plush chair, right in front of an imposing desk covered with stacks of papers. Sitting behind it is the fat man he’d failed to rob. 

Julian tries to sit up, heart rushing, but he is sluggish and he barely manages to shift in the chair.

“Don’t bother boy.” The man says in a nasal voice. “You won’t be able to move for another hour at least. Can you speak ?”

This is not a good situation to be contradictory and Julian knows it. He wets his dry lips.

“Yes”, he manages to croak.

"Perfect.” The man crosses his hands under his chin and leans forward on his desk. “What’s your name ?”

“Julian.”

“We’ve been watching you Julian. You’re resourceful and smart. You’re a decent enough actor too. I could use someone like you. Do you want to work for me ?”

Julian stares for a moment. Of all the way this could have gone, this is not one he had imagined. 

“What kind of work ?” he asks cautiously.

“All kinds of things. I want information. I need people able to get it for me. Interested ?”

“What’s in it for me ?”

“You were about to lose a hand today, boy. I paid the guards so they would forget all about your little mischief. You have to pay me back. Work for me and I’ll even give you a room and some pocket money if you manage to give me what I want.”

Julian blinks slowly and considers it. What he really wants right now is a chance to get out of here alive. Might as well accept, he’ll always find some way to run later if this turns out to be a bad deal. 

“Alright. I’ll work for you.”

“Good. That’s settled then. Someone will take you to your room,” the man -his new boss- rings a bell on his desk and a bookshelf turns on itself, revealing a hallway. “Welcome to your new home Julian. I’m Dijkstra.”

&&

Turns out he doesn’t have to run. His room is small but warm and comfortable and he can get as much food as he wants from the kitchen down the hall. These quarters are under the bathhouse, hidden by clever doors and heavy tapestries. Julian doesn’t see anyone other than the cook for a few days before Dijkstra sends for him. He is given his first mission on the spot.

He has to pretend to be a kitchen boy at an inn for a couple of days and collect as much information as he can on some travellers staying there. Ironically enough, the hardest past is the actual kitchen work. The travellers, two men from Velen, are drunk out of their minds when he first sees them. It’s easy enough from there to manage to be the one to bring their plates and drinks and listen in on their conversation. 

He realises then he actually quite likes this new job. The adrenaline rush as he gets closer to the men, having to think on his feet to find new ways to go back to their table without seeming suspicious, playing the cute new boy, clumsy yet eager to prove himself. These are things he’s learned to do, things he excels at. He memories it all and reports back the following day. Dijkstra congratulates him and hands him a small bag full of coins. The man says they’re still far from even of course and that Julian will have to work a lot more to gain back his freedom. 

He spends all of his first pay on new clothes and shoes. After that, he prefers to play it safe and hides half of all he earns behind a loose brick next to his bed. Maybe he’ll be able to pay Dijkstra back faster this way.

From then on, Julian rarely spends more than a few days without a new assignment. They grow longer and more complicated as time goes on. If at first he mostly spies disguised as some kind of servant, Dijkstra soon wants him to pretend to be a noble. Julian has seen nobles during his missions, and even though he thinks he can play one well enough, Dijkstra insists on giving him lessons before he goes. He learns by heart the genealogy of all the major families on the Continent. He learns which fork to eat salad with and which glass is for wine only. He learns of the current brewing tensions and conflicts among nobles these days. 

And with each new little piece of information he loathes nobles just that much more. While children are starving in the very streets they live in, they seem to have the most petty squabbles at the smallest inconvenience. His first assignment as Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, proves him right on all accounts. He is fourteen, pretending to be sixteen and still, he feels like the more mature person in the room at the ball he is currently spying on. Around him are people gorging on food and drinks while mocking those they deem out of fashion or of a lower standing than themselves. Julian simply doesn’t understand their motives beyond pure pettiness and that infuriates him.

He muddles through this first job among the higher society of Novigrad without insulting anyone too obviously and he calls it a win. Dijkstra not so much, mostly because the target had left the party too soon for Julian to really learn anything of value but that doesn't stop him from sending him on shitty assignments all around Velen for a month. That’s nobility for you.

Working for Dijkstra has the unexpected perks of granting Julian no shortage of learning opportunities. As a stableboy, he learns that horses are creatures of nightmares and how to care for them without getting hit in the face. As a simple servant, he’s taught to become a cog in the well oiled machine that is a rich old household. He’s only there for a few hours before he realises that there is no better place to learn about noble’s dirty laundry than in the kitchen. Every little secret is shared around the cooking pot, every single embarrassing detail in the life of the holier than thou is dissected and mocked after a few bottles of wine. 

Julian works with a tailor for sometime, following him around, arms laden with all kinds of fluffy fabrics. There he understands the artifice that can be used to make one look bigger or smaller, imposing or meek. How the subtlest fold can create a whole new persona. Julian is in awe and forgets all about his spying for a few weeks, engrossed in sewing, plaiting and ruffling all the fabrics he can get his hands on. 

But it’s not all roses either. There are many close calls, too many for his taste. He’s walking through a beautiful garden, posing as the Viscount again, trying to convince Marquis What’s His Name to part with some books Dijkstra wants when bandits drop from the trees above and attack them. It might not be his first time facing violence, but it is the first time someone throws a knife at him and he is so bewildered that he doesn’t even try to dodge. The blade sinks into his shoulder and he screams. Old reflexes finally kick in and he runs back toward the house full speed, screaming for the guards. He quickly grabs the books on his way out and limps home. He learns how to patch himself up within the week.

But despite the hardships, he’s yet to fail an assignment by the time he’s sixteen. So when Dijkstra hands him a dagger after his usual brief, its only his own arrogance that convinces Julian that he’ll manage this mission without having to resort to murder. He’s wrong.

It goes well enough at first. He’s waited for night to fall and manages to sneak into the Count’s office without being seen. He even lockpicks the drawer first try. He’s rummaging through the papers, looking for a specific name when the door opens. There’s a loud gasp and Julian barely has enough time to throw the whole stack of paper in his bag before he’s tackled to the ground. 

Hands close around his throat and squeeze. He struggles against his attacker, tries to unbalance him but the man is obviously a more experienced fighter than Julian and stops all his attempts to fight back. He panics, lack of air causing his vision to slowly grow darker. He feels the dagger against his hip and there’s no hesitation as he pulls it free and plunges it in the man’s side.

The fingers go looser but don’t let go yet. The man above Julian looks more surprised than hurt as he gapes at the dagger Julian is still holding. He growls and bashes Julian’s head against the floor, once, twice. Julian pulls the dagger and strikes again and again and again. 

It’s messy. There is blood everywhere, his hand slips on the hilt of the weapon and he cuts his hand on the blade. No matter. 

The man is dead. 

Julian pushes the body to the side, pointedly not looking at it, and sits up, shaking. His hand is bleeding sluggishly but he can’t feel the pain of it. Lost in a nauseous haze, he somehow manages to leave the house unseen. He arrives at the bathhouse but would be hard pressed to say how. He’s still covered in blood when he pushes the door of Djikstra’s office. 

The spymaster looks at him, unbothered by his bloody appearance. Julian drops the bag and the dagger on his desktop. 

“I’m leaving,” he whispers, his bruised neck throbbing.

“Are you now. And why is that ?” Crossing his hands in his usual pose, Dijkstra seems bored with the conversation already. 

“I know I paid you back years ago. You can’t stop me. I don’t want to become some sort of assassin, doing your dirty work.” His voice is almost inaudible but firm.

“What do you want to be then ?” comes the sarcastic chuckle. 

Jukian turns without answering and leaves Dijkstra’s office for the last time. Julian is not a boy anymore. And he might not know exactly who he is yet, but he’s sure it’s not this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone :D  
> New chapter for yall ! Now that Julian has taken back his freedom, what will he do with it uh ?  
> I'm almost done writting this fic, only one chapter to go. Thing is, I keep on having new ideas to add to previous chapters, some of them are quite a bit longer than I had planned.  
> Since it's almost finished, I'll try to do two updates a week (on tuesday and friday). Stay tuned !  
> Hope you'll like this chapter too, as always feel free to leave a comment, I love each and every single one of them <3
> 
> Bonne lecture !

Julian has saved enough money in the past years that he doesn’t have to worry about working for some time yet, so he decides to wander for a while. Even though he’s travelled a fair bit while working for Dijkstra, he’s never really had the time to simply enjoy the scenery. He follows the Pontar down south, stopping every night in a different inn. He goes slowly, enjoying the warming spring weather.

For the first time in his life, he doesn’t have any plans or worries. It’s both terrifying and exhilarating. 

The path leads him to Oxenfurt and he decides to stop there for some time. The city is not as big as Novigrad and seems much more inclined towards cultural entertainment. He’s not been here a week that already he's attended two plays, an obscure conference on frogs and more concerts than he can remember. He loves it.

He loves the chaotic harmony that suffuses the city, the constant noise and the pure energy transpiring at all hours from the perpetually lit windows. It reminds him of La Maison Close somehow, the coming and going of people, the cozy ambiance of old wooden houses lining the streets. He’s nostalgic and he spends a few days basking in the bittersweet memories of a family he lost so long ago already. He takes to humming the old tunes he’d learned back then and, through a rather terribly confusing succession of drunken dares with strangers at the inn, he ends up repeating the concert he’d once held at La Maison Close, once again standing on a wobbly table. He adds some of the newer tunes he’d heard over the last few weeks for good measure. By the end of the night, half the inn is either singing along or tapping their feet to mark the beat. Julian has the time of his life. 

Coins come flying at him when he stops singing -some might hit him in the face but he’s both too drunk and too happy to care- and there are more ales waiting for him at the bar than he can drink by himself. Julian is sixteen and he wants to be a bard. 

He puts Dijkstra’s teaching to good use and gets Julian Alfred Pancratz enrolled in the Oxenfurt University. Three days later, he has a room in the university dormitory and starts a two years course on the Seven Liberal Arts. Arithmetic and geometry are clearly not his cup of tea but he muddles through. Every other class is a dream come true. After years of spying and impersonating all kinds of professions, some of the courses are terribly easy. Others not so much. 

Thankfully, he befriends some of his classmates and they soon help one another. It’s hard at first, being around people his own age. He’s only ever been surrounded by adults and, now faced with teenagers, he feels terribly out of sync. Most of their concerns and discussions seem somewhat trivial to him and he can’t help but be resentful of their naivete.   
He still finds a few that seem just as befundle as him and they become fast friends. Priscilla and Valdo are both a bit older than him and that suits him just fine. They only study at first, but after a few weeks, they spend most of their time together. Both his friends also want to become bards and they decide to make it a competition. The first one to sing at a royal banquet wins eternal glory. Together they compose, practice and grow.

For the first time in years, Julian feels truly happy. And if he doesn’t trust the feeling at first, if he withdraws into himself when it all gets too much, his friends just learn to give him the space he needs to come back to them more confident, every time. 

Julian is tall, taller than everyone in his class, teachers included. And years of running around gave him a certain build that he’s learned to highlight none too subtly. He’s let his brown hair grow just a tad too long but Priscilla’s taken to braiding his hair differently every morning and he likes it too much to cut it off. His eyes are a pretty baby blue, though sometimes, in the window shop reflections he swears he sees them flash red.

It should not be so surprising then that he’s propositioned to the very first time the three of them go out for a drink. Yet, he’s so shocked he can only gasp and run back to his friends. Priscilla tells him he shouldn’t accept any dodgy offers and Valdo calls him an idiot. 

Julian is no stranger to sex. Growing up in a brothel gave him an exhaustive idea of everything it entails and he’s received the talk far too often for his liking back then. Still, it’s not something he’s ever shared with anyone and he’s not sure he’s comfortable doing so right now, and most certainly not with a stranger met at the bar - he knows first hand how poorly that can end for some. That of course doesn’t stop his eyes from wandering. He realises that, contrary to his friends, he’s pleased by both male and female forms and that he seems to interest both equally, which is rather convenient in his humble opinion. 

So, a year later when one the older student he’s met a few times at University events approaches him, he goes eagerly. They don’t share much more than a few pleasurable nights and conniving glances later on but that's fine. Julian is not actively looking for more than that really. For once he feels too young to be looking for someone else. He’s still trying to figure himself out, no need to bother himself with a whole other person. From then on he spends some of his nights in the beds of fleeting conquests, sharing heated moments with both girls and boys for a few hours at a time. 

That’s not Priscilla and Valdo’s case. They fall for each other fast and hard. One can hardly ever be seen without the other and, though Julian is loath to begrudge them their happiness, he’s a bit uneasy about the whole affair. Valdo is a bit too possessive of Priscilla, Julian thinks, and of all she does. Valdo starts singing the songs she writes, playing her compositions and taking credit for it all. Julian tries to broach the subject with Priscilla but she says that they’ve been working on it together and that he does have to get some recognition for his work. She gets none though and that sets Julian on edge. But he loves both his friends, even Valdo for all his faults, so he doesn’t do anything. 

&&

They’ve been studying for a year and a half now. There’s only a few months left before they are all done with school. Julian has chosen to focus his mastery on the lute and he plays several times a week at various inns around the city for practice. He gets good enough but he’s only playing other bards songs and he’s bored with it. He wants to write his own songs, true epics that will be sung by the whole continent and be remembered by generations to come. He’s a romantic like that he discovers. 

But the words simply won’t come. He writes for class and it all seems fine on paper, but the moment he sings his own verses, the words taste like ash on his tongue, choking him into butchering the song before it’s over, to the point of nausea even. There is something missing, something vital to his work and he just can’t find it. When he rants about it to his friends, Priscilla tries to reassure him, telling him his songs are fine and he’ll get there eventually. Valdo laughs at him a bit but he also offers to do some research together in Oxenfurt’s library to work on his creation process, so Julian lets him off the hook with only a small punch to the shoulder. 

Julian loves them both dearly. That’s probably why, when Valdo goes up on stage during their final examination and starts interpreting what Priscilla had written and had been planning on singing herself, the betrayal hits just that much stronger. Julian has rarely known a rage like the one burning in his gut, fueled by both his own hurt and the pain written plainly on Priscilla’s broken face. His knuckles are white from strain as his hands leave actual indents in the wooden armchairs. The only thing thing stopping him from running on stage to fucking destroy the dick head is Priscilla’s hand clutching his tight painfully. 

The bastard ends the song -Priscilla’s song- and has the goal to fucking smile at them, as if this just was the funniest joke. There’s a break before the next student, Priscilla, has to go up and Julian takes this opportunity to drag her out of the room.

“What am I gonna do ?” she repeats again and again in a panicked whisper. “Julian, what am I gonna do ?”

“You’re going to fucking crush him, that’s what you’re gonna do.”

They thrift through her repertoire, settle on a song about heartbreak that will best suit her mood and give her a chance to at least make it a cathartic experience. They only have enough time to make her rehearse the song once before she’s called on stage. 

Her voice shakes and breaks on a few of the more emotional lines but the raw feelings that it carries move even the most unflappable teacher in the jury, who Julian sees dab his eyes dry during the performance. 

Julian’s next and, as he settles in front of the jury, he can’t focus on anything but his anger. It burns hot through his veins, to the point that he’s almost certain that, were he to check, he would be able to see the amber of his rage pulsing and glowing brightly under his skin. To give his anger an outlet, he starts to sing.

It’s not the song he’d prepared, nor one he’d ever written. He doesn’t know the lyrics and, when he asks her about it later, Pricilla can’t seem to recall a word of it either. Yet, he plays. And as he plays, the fire in him grows rather than dim. It grows and grows until, with a final push, he puts it all into his performance. It lasts forever and barely a moment. It’s over before he even knows it and he comes back to himself deafened by thunderous applause. 

Jaskier graduates first of his promotion. 

He confronts Valdo the moment the teachers let them go.

“Oh come on Julian, what did you think this was uh ? It’s just how it works you know. For someone to be the best, others have to take second place. Or third in this instance.”

Julian breaks his fucking ugly nose and takes Priscilla out to drown her sorrow once she’s kicked the bastard in the balls hard enough to make him thow up. Good for her. They drunkenly swear eternal hatred for the man after one ale too many.

When he checks on his lute later that night, he sees scorch marks where his hands had been. He wonders...

&&

Priscilla decides to try to make a name for herself in Novigrad but Julian doesn’t feel like settling down yet. The open road calls out to him and he prepares accordingly. They part ways outside Oxenfurt’s gate, after many teary eyed hugs and promises to keep in touch.

Bags full and lute at the ready, Julian is about to start his bardic career. He keeps to other bards songs the first few times he sings in inns and market places. He earns enough coin to pay for a room and innkeeps offer him food and drinks more often than not. He’s been a bit scared to sing any of his own compositions since last time. He’s always felt there was something not quite human looking back at him in the mirror, but he doesn't know what that might be exactly and until then, he’d rather not risk hurting anyone. 

Even so, he settles one afternoon in a meadow to practice one of his songs, just to check. It’s been more than a month after all, maybe he’s just imagined it. He sits down on a naked patch of grass and starts singing a small dity about a little girl tasting an apple pie for the first time. It’s a happy tune with cute simple lyrics that he hopes will please the children at the markets. 

The moment the first notes leave his mouth, he knows. He can almost feel the crunchy pastry, the honey sweet apples melting on his tongue. Julian swears he can smell the savory and warm aroma of a pie drifting in the slow breeze waltzing through the fields. He closes his eyes to enjoy it. 

Once it’s over, he blinks slowly. Around him, hundreds of small buttercups bloom. 

Definitely not his imagination then.

&&

In memory of that day in the meadow, he changes his name to Jaskier. As a new bard, he needed a stage name anyway, so might just as well take one that will be a constant reminder of what he can do if he’s not careful. 

He writes the most innocent, unharmful songs he can think of, just so that if he slips, he’ll not cause any disasters. However he’ll never know if he doesn’t try to sing to an audience, and so he works up the courage to one night, in a small inn near Gulera, sing. It’s a drinking song, the kind of tune that’s been written a thousand times already but he’s tried to make it more about the friendly merriment than some of the more boorish sort - alright he might still have dropped a hint or two about nightly fun, sue him.

Once again, he can taste the words. At the moment, it’s wine slowly filling his mouth, round and spicy. He’s ready for it. Jaskier focuses on the feeling and tries to understand it. Now that he knows what to expect, it’s easier to notice the hum of energy under his skin, gently waving its way through him. He pushes at it, like flexing a muscle almost, and it swells immediately in response. 

All the while he keeps on singing -he’s a professional, he can multitask- but he is so focused on himself that he doesn’t see what happens around him. Only once he plays the last note and looks up does he realise what he’s done. 

There is no one left standing in the inn. Puddles of ales and stronger spirits grow beneath the mounds of bottles lying haphazardly on the ground next to the passed out patrons. The innkeep is lying over the bar, a mostly empty bottle of whisky dangling dangerously in his limp hand. 

Jaskier drops his lute in his haste to check on them. They all seem alright, drunk out of their minds, a bruise here and there from what he can see and a memorable hangover in the making that’s for sure. He makes certain no one lies on their backs, picks up the dropped bottles and cleans up as much as he can. He even goes to the well in the backyard to fill several buckets of water and leaves them next to the bar. He feels so guilty for influencing them into drinking themselves to oblivion that he spends the rest of the night looking over the patrons, stocking the fire so they won’t be cold. He’s not brave enough to stay in the morning though and he steals away at first light, gently closing the door behind him. 

He must do better. 

&&

The next few weeks are mostly trials and errors. Jaskier can feel the hum - the magic a small voice breathes in the back of his mind - all the time now that he knows what to look for but he can only effect it when he sings. He makes it as small as he can, slows it down to a trickle when he performs. And though the words still leave a strong taste in his mouth, their power over his audience seems to have disappeared. He keeps on playing the part of the inexperienced bard to explain away some of the awkward looks he sends the audience while searching for any signs of his voice’s influence. People find his apparent shyness either endearing or annoying, but mostly still expected from a new performer. 

As he settles near the bar in some small smelly inn in Posada, he prepares for his last test. So far, he’s kept it safe, singing simple unchallenging things. Today, Jaskier will sing his stupidest song by far. If the patrons hate it, then it’ll be the final proof that he’s mastered his voice and can perform without influencing his audience into doing and liking anything he sings. 

His voice rises slowly above the hubbub and already Jaskier can taste a peculiar sweetness in the air. He contains it, pushes it down until it is nothing but the smallest aftertaste on his tongue. He receives a carrot right in the face not twenty seconds later. It is quickly followed by hard bread and molded bits of food. Despite some annoyance -alright the song was bad, but did they really have to go for the face- he is excited. He’s sure now. He can still sing, he can still become a bard. He hides a small smile behind his hand as he pretends to rub his barely aching cheek when he spots him. 

There’s a witcher in the inn.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boys finally meet :D  
> Bonne lecture

1240

Geralt of Rivia, Witcher extraordinaire, is magnificent. There’s really no other way to put it. He. Is. Magnificient. From top to bottom, Jaskier can’t find a fucking thing he doesn’t like. The man is all muscle and grumpiness, power suffusing his every move and the bard can’t get enough of it. His golden eyes and his white hair are a call for poetry if the bard has ever seen one. The Witcher is intoxicating and Jaskier is hooked. 

He can’t for the life of him remember what he tells the Witcher in the inn - which is probably for the best really - or how he managed to follow him up the mountain trails to this unknown devil they’re supposed to find. The whole thing with the elfs is a bit unnerving but Jaskier gains the most beautiful lute he’s ever seen for his trouble so he’s not gonna complain - too much. 

On the way back to Posada, inspiration hits and the song is ready by the time they’re at the inn. Jaskier plays for his dinner while Geralt broods at a table, nursing an ale and keeping as far away from the crowd as he can. 

The dim light from the fireplace and the few candles here and there give the witcher a golden glow that hypnotises Jaskier. His hair hangs loose around his sculpted face. Jaskier itches to put it behind the witcher’s ear. He could write a thousand songs about this man, he realises. And to his surprise, he actually really wants to. He wants to learn more about this beast of a man that protected an annoying bard he barely knew.

He finishes his set with his new song. The patrons seem unsure at first, but even though Jaskier makes sure not to let any of his power show, the catchy tune soon gets them to sing along and a few coins are actually tossed to a bewildered Geralt. Jaskier bows one last time and goes to the bar to order two plates and more ale. He sits himself in front of Geralt with more assurance than he truly feels.

“You’re welcome.”

Geralt actually snorts - and how endearing is that.

“Not sure what I should be thankful for,” he growls slowly, sipping at his ale. 

“Why, for making you famous of course. Today marks the day the White Wolf enters the legends,” Jaskier declares, waving a hand up high. “In a few weeks, everyone will know of Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier the humble bard.”

“Don’t see much humility ‘round here,” Geralt mutters. The innkeeper brings their dinner and mugs. Jaskier slides a plate toward Geralt who stares at it, almost as if expecting it to come to life and attack him.

“This,” Jaskier adds, pushing the plate further toward the witcher, “is to thank you for saving me today. And for the inspiration for the new song too. And for agreeing to let me travel with you from now on of course.”

The silence stretches as Geralt keeps his eyes fixed on the plate. Jaskier’s heart is speeding up and he does his best not to let any of his nervousness bleed into his cocksure grin. Then, ever so slowly, Geralt reaches for the plate, giving the smallest of nod in acknowledgement. 

Jaskier’s cheeks ache for how much he smiles that evening.

&&

Jaskier usually doesn’t really think much before spending the night with his lovers. As long as everyone is clearly on board, he goes for it. He’ll give chase to some, test a few boundaries if he thinks he has a chance to win them over but more often than not, he can find some willing partner easily. 

Strangely enough though, he doesn’t even feel like trying with Geralt. Of course, Jaskier would like nothing more than to be ploughed into the mattress by the man and reciprocally. He can admit to some delicious daydreaming when they bath in rivers and lakes. 

But the witcher feels far too unattainable and aloof for Jaskier to risk losing this exciting opportunity of travelling with a witcher. He’ll not risk this inspiring adventure for a sweet time with Geralt- not that the witcher has given any indication of being interested anyway. It doesn’t stop him from flirting of course. He loves seeing the flustered look on the man’s face whenever Jaskier compliments his beauty and strength in songs. Jaskier won’t let it go further than that for now, even if it means learning to live in a state of semi-constant frustrated arousal.

&&

Geralt of Rivia, as beautiful as he is, is also a tiny bit terrifying. 

Jaskier is not proud to say that it takes him two actual weeks of travelling together to realise that he is spending his days with an actual monster hunter. He, a man of unknown but most certainly not human origin, is travelling with a monster hunter. Smart move. 

It’s dusk now and Geralt has gone to kill a pack of nekkers deeper out in the marshes. Jaskier had planned on going after him but the smelly mud at the entrance of the bog is a good deterrent. He is all alone -except for Roach, but she’s been either ignoring or attacking him since they started travelling together so she doesn’t count- with his sudden realisation. He’s terrified for all of two minutes, pacing their empty camp, before he stops at the sound of branches breaking in the wood nearby. 

Roach kicks the ground a few times and nickers, ears pulled back against her head. His time as a stableboy only confirms what Jaskier already suspected. Something is coming and it’s not Geralt. 

Just as the bard crouches to unsheath the small dagger hidden in his boot, the two most ugliest creatures he’s ever seen come out of the woods. They’re small, almost childlike if it weren’t for their huge bulbous heads, their greyish skins and the claws they have for hands. The monsters immediately spot him and the mare and run at them. 

Roach rears menacingly and knocks the closest monster directly in the head, sending it flying to the ground. Trusting the mare to take care of herself - she actually seems to have much more of a fighting chance than he does - Jaskier focuses on the second creature. Edging away from the horse, it’s getting closer to Jaskier, hands out and ready to slash at him. The bard adjusts his grip on the handle of his dagger and spreads his feet, waiting for the monster to attack. 

He doesn’t have to wait long before the thing jumps at him, aiming for his face. Jaskier steps sideways, dodging, but the monster is relentless and comes at him again and again. It manages to wound him, smalls cuts that barely bleed but still burn like fuck. Jaskier deals it damage too, going so far as cutting some of its fingers off in one lucky strike. Unfortunately, it signs the end of his blade, which breaks in two upon impact. 

Now unarmed, Jaskier tries to shuffle away while the monster is distracted by its missing digits. But the thing turns back towards him, made even more vicious by pain, and jumps once more. Jaskier, frozen in place, can only watch dumbly as the monster gets closer and closer, until he is forcibly pushed away.

Jaskier falls and manages to roll away from the fight clumsily. Geralt is here, silver sword dancing in the dying sunlight. He must have come back in a hurry, with what Jaskier can only guess is part of the nekker pack still alive and trailing him, since they’re now swarming their camp. Geralt dispatches them one after the other, severed heads tumbling heavily in the dirt at every slash of his sword. 

With monster guts and blood covering his ghastly pale skin, eyes turned an inky black as he ruthlessly kills every single monster, Geralt is breathtaking. Jaskier understands now where the tales of old that warns off villagers from ever trusting a witcher stem. Witnessing such a scene can bring anyone a healthy dose of caution regarding witchers. But Jaskier is not just anyone now, is he.

The heavy thumping of his heart has less to do with fright than with exhilaration. Jaskier supposes it says something about him that he finds the witcher more beautiful and enticing than ever as he is right now. Jaskier is half hard when the fight ends.

Panting heavily, Geralt turns to him.

“Are you alright ?”

Jaskier nods, standing abruptly. “I’m okay. Roach is a fine fighter and you arrived just in time.”

Flicking his sword to get the worst of the grime away, Geralt moves closer to the bard hesitantly. Jaskier watches him, puzzled, as the witcher walks on step at a time, hand out as if to appease the bard. 

“You okay ? That’s quite a lot of blood, how much of it is yours ?”

“None,” Geralt mutters, stopping next to Jaskier, looking at him uncertainly. Jaskier just now sees that they’re of height. Geralt’s imposing bulk must have distracted him from that fact. The witcher tilts his head to the side, as if trying to decipher the bard somehow. 

“Good, good. Well,” Jaskier adds, turning to face the battle scene that had once been their camp. “That’s one ruined campsite if I’ve ever seen one. I’ll pack it all back up so we can try and find someplace else before it’s too dark. Hurry up and do whatever witchery things you need to do !”

Before he can take a step, Jaskier is stopped in his tracks by a hand cupping his cheek gently. He flinches a bit when Geralt’s thumb brushes softly over what is most certainly a small cut. The bard had not even realised the nekker had managed to hit his face. Geralt’s hand stays there, thumb pressing at the skin gingerly.

“It’s not too deep. We’ll put some salve on it later. Anything else I should check ?”

Still, Geralt’s hand remains on his cheek. Jaskier coughs awkwardly to clear his tightening throat but there is nothing he can do against the obvious flush that must be spreading on his face. 

“I think it got me in the thigh and the back. Nothing too bad.”

Geralt hums in answer, looking away, dropping his hand. “I’ll have a look at it anyway. I’ll help you pack, I only need one head to collect the reward.”

Geralt moves to the bedrolls, thankfully still rolled up and unstained by any gore. Jaskier looks at his back and is trying to puzzle the witcher’s weirdly demure behaviour when he comes to the realisation that, not once since coming back has Geralt looked at him directly in the eyes. And it’s this detail that helps him suddenly understand that the witcher thinks Jaskier is scared of him. 

Jaskier feels his stomach drop, sadness brutally weighing him down. What could have this man gone through that he would believe someone he’d just saved would be scared of him ? How many times has it actually happened that he doesn’t even question it ? That he is even surprised by Jaskier’s lack of fright ?

A knot tightens in his belly and tears prickles his eyes. Sure, he’s seen the glares whenever they meet other people, seen men sneer at Geralt and children point at the witcher before running away. But Geralt has seemed unmoved by it all and Jaskier thought the witcher just rightfully ignored their idiotic bigotry. Jaskier is so fucking stupid.

Of course it affects Geralt. Of course it pains him. And of fucking course it has tainted his opinion of himself to the point of thinking himself truly a terrifying beast. 

This is unacceptable. 

All nervousness at the idea of being discovered as a creature vanishes from Jaskier’s mind as he silently swears to himself to never, ever let any slight go unanswered anymore. He’ll change the people’s minds with his songs eventually.

In the meantime, his fists will do.

&&

Two days later, Jaskier is just about done with his show when he sees the innkeep spit in Geralt’s ale before handing it to the witcher smugly. Geralt frowns, remains silent and goes back to their table empty handed. 

Jaskier drops his lute -more like gently lays it down in a dramatic way - and throws himself at the man behind the bar. He hears a satisfying crunch as the moron’s nose breaks under his fist and lays a few good punches -receives some as well- before Geralt and other patrons come to break the fight. 

They spend the night in the stables with Roach. But the small smile curving Geralt’s lips as he carefully dabs at Jaskier’s scratches makes it all worth it.

&&

Geralt is genuine. Sure, the witcher doesn’t show much of what goes on in that beautiful head of his. But what little emotions manage to pierce through are true. For all he likes to pretend that ‘Witcher don’t have emotion Jaskier’, Geralt is probably the most honest and open person Jaskier has ever met.

Geralt never lies about his feelings. He’ll hide, he’ll show a blank face, but he won’t pretend. To Jaskier, who’s been taught from childhood to read between the lines, to look for deceits and falsehoods in people’s behaviour, this is nerve wracking.

He spends the first months of their travels tying his brain into knots, trying to make sense of the witcher, waiting for the other shoe to drop. This is all terribly confusing in its simplicity and the bard is often wrong footed during that time. It is probably a bit sad that it takes so long for Jaskier to simply accept that he’s not being lied to for the first time in his life. 

When Geralt is annoyed at Jaskier for overcooking the rabbits again, he frowns and growls moodily. When Jaskier writes Roach a serenade to try to finally win her over, Geralt poorly restrains a smirk and chuckles softly every few lines. And when they spend a quiet evening under the stars, sitting around the fire, the witcher’s face softens, eyes crinkling in discreet happiness. 

So if Geralt is indeed a profoundly emotionally constipated man, he is never deceitful. 

This is liberating in a way Jaskier never anticipated. No more worries about hidden motives, no tip-toeing around issues. Everything is out in the open and true. It’s like being able to take a deep breath and let go for the first time. Like having room to be himself, free of any untold expectations. 

If Jaskier is a bit emotional and keeps on stealing gentle touches in the few days that follow this epiphany, Geralt doesn’t comment on it. 

&&

Twice that year, he receives letters from Dijkstra. How this spider of a man knows where to find Jaskier, the bard doesn’t even want to know. Each of the letters details missions, conveniently nearby, that need to be taken care of. As usual, a good amount of gold is offered. The first letter, he crumples and throws in the fire before Geralt sees it. The second letter, Jaskier keeps. 

He doesn’t resent the time he spent as Dijkstra’s spy. Jaskier knows it probably even saved him from a life spent in the streets of Novigrad. He enjoyed parts of it, looks back on some of those days with bitter fondness. But it came at a price he’s not sure he was ready to pay back then. Accepting one mission here and there won’t put him back Dijktra’s list of regulars, he’ll most likely be considered a simple informant. But is it a risk he is willing to take ? Is the money worth endangering his hard won freedom ?

He looks at Geralt’s poorly patched-up armor, at Roach’s tack that needs changing, at his lute case, badly scratched from a griffin attack. Jaskier pockets the letter. The following day he announces to Geralt that he has to leave for a couple of days to play at the estate close by.

One mission here and there won’t hurt.

&&

Of all the things Jaskier learns about Geralt in the first year of their friendship -because they’re friends, no matter what some might have to say about it- the one thing that stands out the most is that Geralt is good.

The man has strong morals and he always tries his darndest to live by them. 

This becomes evident to Jaskier the day Geralt takes on a contract to solve a string of murders in a village south of Novigrad. All the gory evidence seems to point to some king of vampires according to the alderman but Geralt is unconvinced. For once, he doesn’t even try to stop Jaskier from coming to investigate with him and they go deep in the woods together, following whatever trail Geralt has managed to detect. Jaskier tries to get him to explain how he does it, did he sniff them or what, but he only gets a warning hum and drops it - for now.

They’re soon standing at the entrance of a small cave. Geralt signals him to keep silent and follow him. There are a few holes in the high ceiling that let in a bit of light but it’s still too dark for Jaskier to walk confidently. He keeps a hand on the wall but stumbles a few times anyway before Geralt’s sights in resignation and extends his arm to the bard. Smiling broadly in thanks, Jaskier loops his arm with Geralt’s and they move deeper into the cave.

They exit a small turn and enter a bigger cavern. Jaskier can make out a table and some trash scattered around him but not much else in the dim light.

“Fuck.”

“What ? What is it ?”

Geralt moves towards what Jaskier had thought was trash and the closer they get, the stronger his dread grows. Piles of bones litter the ground around the table which he can now see is covered in dried blood and unlit candles.

“The killer is human,” Geralt concludes after inspecting it all for a while longer, breathing deeply - sniffing, Jaskier is so sure of it.

“So what ?” Jaskier is about to ask when Geralt turns suddenly toward the entrance. The witcher pushes Jaskier up against the wall and puts a finger to his lips to silence him. The bard is thoroughly distracted by the body unexpectedly pressed against his own but he remains silent. They stay like that for a couple of tantalizing minutes before Jaskier hears it too. Footsteps coming their way.

A figure enters the cavern, dragging a huge burlap sack behind them. Geralt pats Jaskier’s shoulder before silently moving to stand behind the intruder. In one swift move, the man is knocked unconscious and falls to the ground. Jaskier joins Geralt as the witcher kneels next to the bag and opens it.

The smell is the first indication of its contents Jaskier gets, then a severed hand falls out. He turns around and gags a few times before composing himself. He looks at the man, the murderer lying at their feet. So does Geralt before he bends to pick him up and throw him on his shoulder.

“What are you doing ?”

“Bringing him to the alderman,” Geralt answers, moving toward the exit.

“Why not just kill him ? Clearly, he’s our man.”

And Jaskier knows Geralt’s history. He’s heard the rumors still haunting his every step, he’s fighting them himself. He’s ran away from a life as an assassin himself for fuck sake. He should know better than to say that to Geralt. 

But the severed hand lying at his feet is so very small that he forgets for a minute, and it’s all his stupid mouth needs. 

Geralt freezes. He doesn’t look at Jaskier as he speaks and that makes it all even worse. 

“I don’t kill humans.”

Jaskier scrambles for something to say but Geralt is already leaving, moving faster. Jaskier, still as blind as on the way in, does his best to follow but by the time he is out, Geralt is long gone. 

It’s a long walk alone back to camp, ample time to call himself all kinds of names and think of some way to apologize. When Geralt gets back to camp from his trip to see the alderman, a stew is already bubbling over the fire, the bedrolls are laid out and Roach has been cared for to the best of Jaskier’s ability. The witcher hums, face carefully blank, and settles next to him. Hugging his lute, Jaskier takes the leap.

“I’m sorry. I know how you feel about killing humans, I shouldn’t have suggested it so flippantly.”

“It’s alright,” Geralt grunts, shoulders visibly relaxing nonetheless. 

“No, it’s not. My brain often has a hard time catching up with my mouth. And I guess,” he pauses, gathering his thoughts. “It’s no excuse but I guess sometimes I just have a hard time seeing how humans are so very different from the monsters you fight.” 

Geralt looks at him thoughtfully, head tilted to the side. “What do you mean ?” he asks eventually.

“I’ve seen what some men are capable of, Geralt. Monsters are awful and hard to fight, that’s true. But men can cause just as much damage as any creature if they put their mind to it. Men are often monstrous. And it’s not your business, I know that,” he hurries to add frantically trying not to offend the witcher further. “it just slips my mind from time to time. I’m sorry.”

Geralt doesn’t respond right away, apparently contemplating Jaskier’s apology. The bard plays a few notes to calm his fidgeting hands, looking at the stars above. 

“I can’t always be garroter, jury and judge, Jaskier. I deal with monsters because no one else can. Men can handle their own.”

The bard nods slowly. He inches closer to Geralt and lets his head fall on the witcher’s shoulder. Compared to Geralt, Jaskier realises he perhaps lacks a moral compass. He’s not sure if he misses it or not but it’s obviously important to Geralt. Jaskier will have to think about it. Later. Later because right now, he is basking in the warmth of the fire, on the soft give of his friend’s shoulder under his cheek and on the barely there touch of Geralt's head resting on his own.

&&

If Jaskier has made a list of all he’s learned about Geralt since they met, it’s because he is trying to make sense of the man. It’s almost everyday that the bard is left speechless by something Geralt did or said and, to Jaskier, the witcher often seems bigger than life.

It might be unfair for Geralt to be reduced to a list of characteristics, Jaskier is aware of that. But as they part for winter, Geralt on his way to the Blue Mountains and Jaskier to Novigrad, he can’t help but feel grateful to Destiny for giving him the opportunity to learn more about this wonderful man and he sends it a silent prayer, wishing guiltily he’ll be able to add more to his list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this chapter, let me know in the comments <3  
> Come and find me on tumblr if you so wish, it's mostly shitpost but it's good fun @ meme-cracra


	5. Chapter 5

1241

Jaskier won’t ever admit to anyone how anxious he is after that first winter. At the first signs of melting snow he goes back on the road, leaving behind Priscilla and Novigrad. He travels north while trying to convince himself that no, he most certainly won't be disappointed if he doesn’t find Geralt - except that he will.

The roads are still covered in muddy snow, making his first days back on the road much harder than they have any right to be, dropping his mood further down into a spiral of doubt. Geralt probably never wants to see him again,he thinks. Jaskier has only ever annoyed the witcher that past year. According to Geralt, they’re not even friends after all. 

He knows it’s not true of course, but he’s tired and cold and he misses Geralt dammit. 

So, when a couple days later, as he sings for his dinner, a head of long snow white hair catches his eye, who could blame him for slipping up and letting some of the drumming heat constantly pulsing through him spill from his lips in a flow of sugary sweet lyrics.

&&

Jaskier messes up more often than he’d like. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Geralt to know about his nature really, it’s more that the bard doesn’t feel ready to face it yet. It’s easier to ignore it all, especially since he knows how to control his powers now. Well, mostly knows how to control his powers.

&&

There is this one time in Velen, true. They’ve barely put a foot in the village that Geralt is already asked to please slay the beast that’s been eating their cattle for the last fortnight. Jaskier negotiates the price while Geralt goes to gather more information. He leaves not long after, expecting to find a wyvern. Turns out there’s three of them. When the witcher comes back, his right arm bleeding heavily from an ugly gash, three heads dangling from Roach saddle, the alderman has the audacity not only to refuse to raise the reward accordingly, but also to even pay what they’ve initially agreed on. All of that because “surely, a mutant such as he has no need for all that good gold”. Other villagers are snickering behind him smuggly.

Taking care of Geralt’s wound is more important than bashing their heads in but it’s a close thing. Jaskier follows Geralt to the room they rented where he sews and bandages his arm, cursing the bigotted idiots while his friend remains silent, eyes lost in the distance. When the witcher claims to be too tired to eat his dinner downstairs and prefers to meditate in their room, Jaskier’s blood all but boils in his veins. He smiles softly at his friend as he settles on the ground.

“I’ll go down to sing a bit and grab something to eat anyway, just in case you wake up famished in the middle of the night.”

Geralt grumbles something unintelligible, already lost to his meditation. Perfect. Before Jaskier even realises it, a plan has formed in his mind. He grabs his lute and leaves the room, quietly closing the door behind him. He takes one deep breath. Then he takes another. He walks calmly down the stairs to the main room where what seems like all the village is gathered for the night. Good.

He signals the innkeeper who greets him with a nod. Jaskier then goes to a table in the corner, climbs right onto it and strums his lute dramatically. And for once, because this is a shitty village full of shitty people, when he starts singing ‘Toss a coin’, he flexes the energy burning in him, feeds it his anger and sadness at witnessing the way humans treat his friend. With every new stanza, the energy pouring from his lips leaves a sour aftertaste on his tongue as coins come flying to his feet. 

He feels sad, he feels helpless, he feels mad. What is the point of him working so hard to change the continent’s opinion on whitchers when faced with such cruelty and spitefulness. What can he do, small insignificant being that he is, against these waves of hatred. Hopelessness washes over him and the patrons soon start weeping around him. He lets his voice fade with the last lines of his song, the music soon stopping too. 

He steps down and gathers the money in the small purse at his hip. The room is silent but for a few sad hiccups and sniffs. The patrons all seem to have been struck dumb by his voice. Jaskier leaves, purse heavy and he grabs two abandoned plates on his way up.

When he enters the room, Geralt is standing by the window, back to the door. Jaskier knows how sensitive the witcher’s hearing is. Did he hear ? Does he know ?

Geralt turns his head as Jaskier closes the door behind him. Neither of them speaks while Jaskier puts the food and his lute down, unties the purse to put it back in their bags.

“Awfully generous people tonight.” Geralt growls suddenly, eyeing the brimful pouch. 

“Yes !”, Jaskier answers hurriedly. “Yes indeed. They must have seen the error of their ways since this afternoon, I suppose. Took my performance as a chance to apologize for their awful behaviour you know.” He pats the bag once it's closed around his precious loot. “There’s enough to patch your armor when we next meet an armourer.”

Jaskier is rambling, he knows. But he doesn’t know what else to do other than to deflect.

“Hum.”

Jaskier peeks over his shoulder at the witcher. He’s looking out the window again but there’s a small barely there smile lifting his lips. When he doesn’t say anything else, Jaskier sighs quietly. 

&&

And there’s also that day when they’ve just finished a big contract in Toussaint and the man actually gave them a box full of Toussatain wine bottles as payment. It’s early summer, they’re camping in a clearing near the vineyard and Jaskier is drunk on good wine and happiness. 

The sun is setting over the Beauclair Palace, cicadas and wild peacocks setting a cheerful tempo to the warm evening, the whole scenery awash in a glowing array of golds. Geralt is drinking directly from the bottle, already downing his fourth and particularly stoned himself. He’s shed his armor and is only wearing his thin brown undershirt and pants to fend off the heat. Jaskier is far too drunk to restrain himself from ogling the witcher but he still has enough sense to do it discreetly - or as discreetly as he can anyway. Geralt muscular arm lifts to bring the bottle higher and higher, putting his throat on display for Jaskier’s eyes to feast on. 

The bard grabs his lute and puts it on his lap to try and hide any damning evidence of his too obvious appreciation. To clear his head a bit, he starts singing the first thing that comes to his mind, which happens to be an old sea shanty he’d learned from Skellige sailors back in Novigrad.

“There once was a ship that put to sea,  
And the name of that ship was the Billy o' Tea”

He expects the chuckle that gets out of Geralt. He expects the eyes crinkled in delight. But he most certainly doesn’t expect Geralt to join him in the chorus, his baritone complementing the bard’s own voice beautifully. 

“One day, when the tonguing' is done  
We'll take our leave and go.”

Jaskier couldn’t stop smiling if he tried. He’s deliriously happy here with Geralt, sharing wine and songs, so much so he almost feels tears building up in his eyes. He closes them as he keeps singing, Geralt joining him still for every chorus, beating the rhythm on his tight with his now empty bottle. They start chuckling for no reason whatsoever during the last verse and both end up rolling on the ground, laughing and laughing. By the time Jaskier is holding his aching belly, fighting for air, he is right next to a much more composed but still shaking Geralt. The witcher lifts his hand and gently puts some of Jaskier’s hair back behind his ear. Were he sober, Jaskier might have noticed the lingering look on his lips and the idle caress on his neck that lasted just a few seconds too long. As it is, he merely smiles and cuddles closer to Geralt, oblivious. They fall asleep soon after, laying close enough to touch and facing one another. 

Jaskier is the first to wake up surprisingly. He admires Geralt’s face, soft in sleep and calm, for a moment. When he sits up to prepare their breakfast, after rubbing his unfocused eyes and stretching, he sees that the previously green clearing is now entirely carpeted with multicolored sweet peas. Geralt, when he wakes up and sees it, throws a curious look at Jaskier but remains silent. 

&&

Alright, maybe his self-control leaves a lot to be desired. And yet, Geralt notices, but never says anything about it

&&  
1245

Jaskier notices many things about Geralt too. They’ve known each other five years now. They still part every winter, Geralt going back to Kaer Morhen to meet those he calls his brothers, Jaskier spending some time in either Oxenfurt or Novigrad depending on his mood. Other than that, they don’t part much. A week or two here and there if Geralt has a particularly dangerous contract to take care of sometimes but that’s it really. That’s plenty of time to learn more about his friend.

Geralt has a sweet tooth, and that’s probably the cutest thing Jaskier has ever seen. Given half a chance, the witcher will devour any sugary treats he can put his hands on. Jaskier can’t help but indulge him every chance he gets, buying honey cakes in the market, picking berries as they travel through the forest and ordering dessert at taverns they stay in. Geralt huffs, not fooled for a second but still accepts every offering Jaskier gives him. 

The man is also painfully absent-minded. He just keeps losing his things. Whenever they break camp, Jaskier is sure to find an abandoned bowl lying around or a shirt drying in low branches. It’s as infuriating as it is sweet and Jaskier can’t imagine how it was before they started travelling together. Did Geralt have to buy a new pot every time he went to the market ? The only things he never goes without are his swords, his armor and his potions. Anything else is bound to be lost. It only takes a few weeks for Jaskier to develop the habit of always checking after Geralt for lost items. He’ll either put it back in their bag with a pointed look or endlessly tease the absent-minded witcher. It’s become so ingrained now that he doesn’t even have to think twice before he grabs Geralt’s things to put away. 

Jaskier is also appalled to learn that Geralt doesn’t take care of himself if not coerced. The bard has to force him to sit down and let him treat his wounds dammit, otherwise the witcher would just go his merry way bleeding all over the road. Jaskier puts his lessons in first-aid to good use and soon becomes an expert in sewing gross wounds back together. Geralt never thanks him directly, but Jaskier will often be gifted lute strings or new boots soon after one such occurrence. 

It always warms up something deep inside his heart when Geralt hands him these gifts, shyly looking away until Jaskier starts unpacking it giddily. The bard doesn’t want to impose too much on his friend’s usual reserve, but he often can’t help but press a soft kiss to Geralt’s cheek in gratitude. The man never complains, and so Jaskier never stops. 

One of the first things he’d learned about Geralt, is that he believes himself a monster. Jaskier makes it a point to disprove him through small touches and compliments. Ever since that night years ago, Jaskier has never let any insult against the witcher’s nature slide, not even when it comes from the man himself. He doesn’t punch Geralt like he does some others - he’d probably hurt his hand anyway - but he always tuts and corrects him. Geralt doesn’t like it much, he can see that, but it’s important to Jaskier that Geralt knows he deserves respect.

They’ve grown close in the past years, always looking out for each other and making sure they’re okay. Be it Geralt cooking an earthy and hot dinner for a sick Jaskier or the bard buying new treats for Roach, there’s a thousand other little everyday examples showing just how much they know one another now. And for all that he’s close to Priscilla, Jaskier has never shared such a quiet intimacy with her. He likes Geralt for his sweetness, his strength and his dry humour just has much as for his silence and his grumpiness. And he knows, despite the man’s protests, that he’s grown onto the witcher as well. He would have left Jaskier behind long ago otherwise. 

Yes, Jaskier notices many things about Geralt. That’s probably why he is so very blind about himself. 

&&

When he reflects about the last years, Jaskier realises that he has grown softer. The jagged ends of his soul, previously rubbed raw by pain and neglect, have been smoothed away by time, companionship and a newly found happiness. The rabbid anger constantly simmering in his gut has faded to an afterthought. He still gets into too many fights, feral in his need to protect Geralt’s feelings and honor from slight. He is still a petty little shit on a good day and a downright dumbass on a bad one. And despite liking the new people he meets, he still doesn’t trust anyone - anyone but Geralt that is. And yet, Jaskier feels more at ease with himself than he ever has before. He has a better understanding of his emotions and reactions, and that gives him a ground floor he previously lacked. He’s getting to know himself, faults and all, and that’s a kind exploration he’s happy to take on. 

Jaskier, despite his numerous and loud complaints, loves travelling. There is something about not knowing where he’ll be next week, about living his life from day to day that just feels right. He receives offers to become a court bard and he doesn’t even think about accepting it. He can’t imagine a career confined to a pampered life in a manor, though he can’t really put this feeling into words when Geralt asks him about it later. He tries and fails to describe the anxiety that overtakes him when he imagines not sleeping under the open sky any longer, but Geralt seems to get it anyway. 

He also sees more of the world in his time with the witcher than he ever has in his entire life. They go to the sea, where Jaskier spends hours running around on the shore, picking up shells to braid into Roach’s mane. Even as they trudged through the marshes to reach Crow’s Perch, the bard is amazed by some of the rare flowers that grow there just as he swears to never put a foot in Velen’s swamps ever again. And as they travel through the oldest forest he’s ever seen and Geralt makes him promise to never stray too far, for fear of those living in its shadows, Jaskier doesn’t dare tell him about the voices that whisper to him for the first time in more than a decade, inviting him deeper into the woods. He sticks to Geralt’s side until they’re out, scared he will lose himself to the eerie songs. 

&

It is not long after that week in the woods that Jaskier finally asks something he’s been wondering about most of his life. It’s spring. It’s been raining a lot the past few days and so they decided to stop early to enjoy the first ray of sunshine in a week. Geralt is reclining against a tree, face lifted to the sun, eyes closed. Jaskier is laying on his belly, chin resting on his folded hands as he slowly swings his feet up and down. There is a calmness to the air around them that gives Jaskier enough confidence to speak.

“Geralt ?”

“Hmm ?” the witcher answers drowsily. 

“What do you think I am ?”

That gets Geralt’s attention. He sits up and looks at Jaskier, face carefully blank. There is a small silence before he replies.

“I’m not sure.”

That at least confirms Jaskier’s suspicion. Geralt has noticed something. It’s his time to hum thoughtfully. 

“What would your best guess be then ?” He says, trying and failing to sound lighthearted and uninterested.

“You could be many things”, Geralt shrugs. “What do you know exactly ?”

“Not much really. Probably as much as you. I don’t know anything about my parents or their origin. I have some form of magic that can influence people, I can grow plants though I’ve never done it on purpose. I think I’m stronger than most people and I can see things they can’t.”

Geralt nods and considers this for a couple minutes, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers as he thinks.

“Sing me something”, he asks eventually.

“Why, my darling friend, I thought you’d never ask,” Jaskier laughs to cover some of his nervousness. He worked so hard to never sing in front of Geralt that it feels a bit unnerving to finally do so. 

Raising up on his elbows, taking a deep breath, he sings the same song he’d first used to test his power, bringing back the little girl and her apple pie. The smell has not changed one bit and as he looks, he can see the buttercups unfurling right in front of him. 

He ends the song and sighs. Geralt hums, frowns and then takes a deep breath through his nose. He gives Jaskier a contemplative once over and thinks some more. Jaskier starts to fidget to burn off his anxiety and plucks the buttercups.

“I think you’re fae. Part fae at least.”

“Oh ?”

Geralt shuffles over to sit next to Jaskier. He pokes the bard right between his eyes and says.

“Your eyes keep changing colors. They’re mostly blue but I’ve seen them turn green, red or brown on occasion.”

He presses his thumb above Jaskier’s mouth and lifts his top lip to display his teeth. Jaskier shakes his hand away and snaps at Geralt’s hand playfully. 

“Sometimes, I think your teeth look too sharp and pointy. You’re right about your strength, no human would have the stamina to travel at our speed on foot for days as you do. Even when we're staying in cities, you smell like flowers. You’re a real magpie, always attracted to shiny things at the market and you’re allergic to iron. My medallion vibrates when you get near me so you do have some magic. I think…”

Geralt stops and, ever so softly, lays a hand on Jaskier's neck.

“I think you don’t age. You’ve not changed at all since we’ve met Jas’,” Geralt whispers, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the bard’s skin.

“Okay,” Jaskier replies a bit shakily. He breathes deeply to calm his shaking hands. He looks up to Geralt, who’s hand remains on Jaskier still. “Am I dangerous ?”

Geralt has the honesty not to deny it immediately. When he answers, he speaks slowly, choosing his words carefully. 

“You could be if you wanted to. You could probably influence people into hurting themselves or others. If you were to punch a human full force, you might kill them. Full fledged fea can use glamour and shapeshifting to play hurtful and dangerous tricks on people.”

Jaskier had known all of this. But hearing it layed out so plainly is a whole different thing and he can feel his throat growing tighter as his heart races. He’s hurt people, sometimes on purpose. If Geralt is to be believed, and he is, he could do even worse. He knows he’s not the most morally upright man, that some of his choices unsettle those around him. He’s not above killing to protect himself but this…

“Hey,” Geralt squeezes his hand a bit. He pushes at Jaskier’s shoulder until they’re both sitting, facing one another. 

“Hey,” he repeats, grabbing Jaskier’s chin with his other hand to lift his head. When their eyes lock, Jaskier is floored by the softness directed at him. “You’re no more dangerous than I am. You keep on saying I’m no monster and shouldn’t be treated like one. You should afford yourself the same kindness.”

Oh. 

As he looks into the face of his friend and can only find earnest care, Jaskier finally puts a name on the warm emotion that’s been steadily growing in his heart lately. 

He loves Geralt. 

That’s one revelation too many today and there’s nothing Jaskier can say about any of it right now. He let his head drop slowly against Geralt’s shoulder and stays there. The witcher’s hand comes to rest on his back, soothing. 

&&

Nothing much changes after that strangely. He might not have known about either his nature nor the true depth of his feelings for Geralt, but he’d already learned to live with both. In retrospect, Jaskier can admit to having been a blind idiot. 

Love. This is not an emotion Jaskier is overly familiar with. He knows of it, has witnessed it, has played it often enough himself to know the steps. But he doesn’t remember feeling it before. Not to this extent anyway. The memories of his family at La Maison Close, made blurry by the years now, evoke an emotion close to it but not quite right. It is more a feeling of being loved, he reckons, than to love for himself. 

What he feels for Geralt has taken root deep into his being. He doesn’t think he could consciously choose to stop, just like he can’t stop himself from spontaneously thinking of the witcher’s wellbeing any more than he can prevent the swell of satisfaction he feels every time he gets the man to smile back. He’s not sure he’s doing it right some days, because it all feels terribly egoistical. He’d always pictured love to be a selfless emotion, a complete and willing surrender to the object of one’s affection. It’s not like that for him. 

The love he has for Geralt is soft and without any urgency. He loves it when they disagree about petty things and when they bicker for hours on end, each too stubborn to surrender. He loves to dote on Geralt, to bathe him, feed him and pay for his things because he likes to care for him of course, but also because it gives him a shamefully thrilling feeling of ownership over the witcher. And he loves being the only one allowed so close to Geralt, close enough to get a glimpse of the man under the witcher. Maybe his love is not ready to be shared yet. Maybe it needs to grow some more to lose a bit of its gluttony. 

The greedy pull to ask for more is always there, but easy to dismiss. Their friendship is enough to sustain him right now and Geralt obviously doesn’t feel the same way. So he keeps his feeling to himself, except for a few songs he only ever sings in the intimacy of his room during long winter nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the new chapter :D   
> Thank you all so much for the kudos and comments, each and every one of them make my day <3 This small story is terribly self indulgent and I'm happy to see my ramblings about the boys get some love hehe
> 
> I am a sea shanty hoe, sue me <3  
> Also feelings are hard and our boy is so confused.  
> Find me on [tumblr ](http://meme-cracra.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonne lecture <3

1249

Jaskier has not been in the village ten minutes before he hears the commotion. He’s on his way to Kerrack, where he’s supposed to perform for a banquet. 

Since that horrible, horrible night in Cintra, Jaskier has yet to see Geralt. He has not looked for him in the couple of months that followed the events, Jaskier knows the man well enough to know when it is best to leave him be. Now that some time has gone by, he wants to find him though. Jaskier has kept his ears open and heard that a witcher was around this part. He followed the track here but hasn’t found Geralt yet. He’s not overly worried though. He knows he’ll meet up with Geralt soon enough. Destiny is stubborn like that. 

Forever thirsty for the drama, Jaskier follows the loud voices to the main place. There is a group of people, obviously led by a small man draped in heavy orange silk -the horror-, all of them facing a tall brown haired man in leather armor. At first glance, there is something weirdly familiar about the warrior that Jaskier can quite place. As he gets nearer, he finally recognizes the make of the studded armor and the two blades across the man’s back. Jaskier has seen this very same scene play out often enough to know what’s going on before he even gets there. 

Jaskier doesn’t even think twice before stepping in.

“Hello my dear fellow !” he greets the orange man, putting himself between the mob and the witcher. “There seems to be some tension in the air, anything this humble bard can you with ?”

“It’s none of your business, bard, go away,” the man replies, aggressively waving his fist toward the witcher behind Jaskier. “We don’t need any of your kind here, we can take care of the drowners ourselves.”

“I already told you, there’s at least twenty of them,” the witcher answered with a deep yet soft voice. “Even a witcher would have trouble clearing them out by himself. There’s no just no way you can succeed.”

“You don’t know that ! You just want to rob us of all our money, that’s all you’re good for.”

“My friends,” Jaskier raises his hands to placate the men. “There is no need for such harsh words. The witcher offered to help you out, you refused. Let’s keep it at that, shall we ?” He takes a step back and loops his arm with the witcher’s, who visibly startles against him. “Should you change your mind, my friend and I will be having our lunch at the tavern. Feel free to come by !”

Without looking back, Jaskier drags -more like is allowed to drag- the witcher towards the tavern nearby. The man stares at him, clearly bewildered, but remains silent as they get in and Jaskier orders some food and drinks for them both. They sit at the back, near a window. Now that they’re away from the angry villagers, Jaskier takes some time to look at the witcher he all but kidnapped. 

He is muscular but not as broadly built as Geralt is. He has brown air and the same golden slitted eyes as his friend. A huge scar crosses his face from his forehead to his chin, splitting his top lip in two. His expression, though still surprised, has a soft air to it that Jaskier immediately likes. Around his neck, there is a wolf medallion. 

“That was unpleasant. I hope you don’t mind my meddling”, Jaskier leans forward, smiling sheepishly. “I simply wanted to stop this situation from escalating too quickly. I’ve seen how poorly it can go unfortunately.”

The witcher looks at him, blinks a couple of times before breaking into a bright smile. Who knew witchers could smile like that, Jaskier wonders dumbly because of course, he’d had to befriend the most taciturn of all of them. 

“Geralt was not kidding. You truly are something else. I’m Eskel,” the man offers his hand and Jaskier shakes it happily. “It’s nice to finally get to meet you.”

Jaskier is momentarily overwhelmed by the fact that Geralt talks about him when he’s not there. It’s not so surprising admittedly, but that this self proclaimed emotionless man thinks about Jaskier in his absence warms something deep in his soul.

“It’s nice to meet you too Eskel ! Are you perchance one of Geralt’s brothers then ?” At Eskel’s nod, Jaskier bims. “It is a relief to finally be able to put a name and a face on some of his mysterious family members.”

“Yeah, Geralt is not the sort to share that kind of thing, is he,” Eskel chuckles as the barkeep brings their plate and drinks. “Well you’ll probably get to meet Lambert, our other brother, and Vesemir, our old master, if you keep on travelling with him.”

The villagers never come to get them and so they chat the day away at the tavern. It just so happens that Eskel is going in the same direction as Jaskier and the witcher offers to journey together for a few days. Jaskier is delighted. The man is much more open and talkative than his brother. Jaskier is not above taking advantage of this opportunity to learn more about Geralt. He tries for subtlety but even as Eskel answers, the amused look Jaskier gets lets him know he’s been found out.

&&

1250

The day he hears another bard sing ‘Toss a coin’, he is both appalled -it’s his song dammit- and infinitely proud. When they are offered food and lodgings by people who’ve heard of Geralt’s great deeds through Jaskier’s songs, he is elated. And the first time Geralt awkwardly accepts a small bouquet of wildflowers from a little girl whose village he just saved, Jaskier actually cries. 

Ten years ago, when he’d first sung about Geralt, he’d vowed to himself that he would do everything he could to make the witcher’s life easier. ‘Toss a coin’ had been the first step and he’d since created plenty of other songs. But up until now, he’d never truly believed he would succeed somehow. He’d felt powerless against centuries of prejudices, incapable to make even the smallest dent in these hateful beliefs. He’d often felt apart from the world, a ghost, unable to impact it in any way. He never stopped trying, never let himself give up because Geralt was worth every effort. But no, he’d not felt capable of such a miracle. And yet, here they are. 

Here they are indeed, standing in the middle road, Geralt clumsily rubbing his back to comfort him, the precious bouquet still carefully held in his other hand as Jaskier hiccups weakly in between merry sobs. 

&&

1253

Geralt doesn’t say who they came to meet in Novigrad, only that an old acquaintance has asked for his help. Somehow, Jaskier still feels like he should have known.

They’re staying in a fancy inn, windows directly above the main square. From their room, he can see the place where La Maison Close used to be, rebuilt since to become a bank. They’ve been here for three days, waiting for some signal from this unknown acquaintance. Geralt is going crazy from all the noises and smells of the city and refuses to go out unless absolutely necessary. Jaskier still manages to take him out for a pint the first night, but the witcher is so miserable by the time they get back that the bard doesn’t offer the second day and they stay in their room.

That’s where they still are on the third morning of their stay, Jaskier playing as softly as he can while Geralt paces the room like a wild beast, when someone knocks at their door. Geralt growls deep in his throat, his frustration finally finding an outlet as he opens the door.

“You’re fucking late.”

“So what, did I make you late for the witcher’s annual festival or something ?”

Jaskier would recognize this drawl anywhere. It’s still a small shock to his system to hear it after all this time. He stands up slowly, setting the lute down on the bed. 

“What do you want Dijkstra ?” Geralt groans, threatening. 

“Actually it’s not you I wanted to see.” Dijkstra, still as fat and conceited as Jaskier remembers him, turns his back to Geralt - which is terribly unwise given the witcher’s current state - and faces the bard. “Hello Julian.”

Geralt’s head wips almost painfully fast towards Jaskier. There is no suspicion in his eyes, but a strange and cautious confusion that breaks Jaskier’s heart just a bit.

“Hello Dijkstra. You know there are easier ways to reach me than to make us come all the way here,” he greets tensely, a fake smile mechanically overtaking his face. Geralt senses the growing tension in the bard and comes to stand closer to him, though still farther away than Jaskier would have liked.

“We need to talk.” Uninvited, Dijkstra sits in one of the chairs by the fire. Jaskier and Geralt remain standing but that doesn’t seem to trouble him at all. “I need the Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz for a mission. It would last a year or two.”

“Who the fuck is Julian ?” Geralt interrupts him, teeth grinding and clearly getting angrier by the minute.

“Oh, hasn’t he told you ?” Dijkstra, the bastard, chuckles. “ ‘Jaskier’ used to be called Julian back in the day. A clever little spy he was, useful thing to have around.”

Jaskier tenses at being so openly described as nothing but a tool but he chooses to ignore it. 

“Must I remind you that I already paid you back in full ? You don't own me anymore Dijkstra, and I stopped being your spy more than a decade ago. Are your new recruits really all so bad that you have to keep on pestering me ?”

Geralt is deathly still next to him. Jaskier is too focused on Dijkstra to be able to interpret his friend's silence properly but he’ll deal with it later hopefully - if Geralt hasn’t already ran away as he usually does in such circumstances. 

“It would take too much time to train and introduce someone new. The Viscount received an invitation to go to Nilfgaard. I need you there.”

Before Jaskier even has a chance to answer, Geralt has grabbed Djikstra by the collar and pushed him against the wall. Jaskier remains frozen by the sudden burst of violence, gaping.

“Like fuck he’ll go to Nilfgaard.”

Dijkstra, even faced with a clearly furious and dangerous witcher, manages to remain condescendingly stoic.

“There’s something brewing there. We need intel, if an army is on its way we need to know. Julian must go and get us the information.”

“He doesn’t have to do shit for you. And his name is Jaskier,” Geralt barks at Dijkstra, shaking him forcefully against the wall. The bang of Dijkstra’s head hitting woods brings Jaskier back to himself.

Carefully, he walks up to Geralt and lays a hand on the small of his back.

“Indeed, as I already said, I don’t have to do anything anymore for you. Taking a few missions is one thing, going undercover for years is another. I won’t do it Dijkstra. Not anymore.”

Dijkstra frowns and sneers at them both. He shakes off Geralt's grip on his cloth and steps away. 

“As you will. Don’t come crying to me when Nilfgaard arrives at our door unannounced.”

With this ominous prophecy, he leaves the room, petulantly slamming the door behind him. The sounding silence left in his wake grows more uncomfortable but the second.

Jaskier is trying to decide what to do now to get Geralt to calm down but is stopped in his tracks by the witcher turning to him and grabbing both his shoulders. Faces barely a foot apart, Jaskier can see every nuances of the turmoil raging in Geralt’s eyes. 

“Did he force you to work for him ?” 

“Well, hum, I wouldn’t claim he forced me per say,” Jaskier stutters, weirdly self-conscious under Geralt’s intense stare. “He bribed soldiers that had caught me stealing, back when I was a boy. I had to pay him back somehow,” he concludes lamely with a shrug, weighed down by the heaviness of Geralt’s hands still clutching him. “I didn’t do anything I didn’t want too,” he quickly adds, seeing the storm growing on his friend’s face. “It was mostly about intel gathering, small things like that.”

Geralt closes his eyes, as if tasting something foul. “How old were you ?”

“Hum, twelve when I started ?” He phrases it as a question, unsure as to why this could be relevant. 

“Just a kid then,” Geralt snaps. He lets go of Jaskier and walks towards the door. “I’m gonna kill the bastard.”

“No !” Jaskier hurries behind him and manages to catch his hand just as Geralt grabs the doorknob. “Geralt please wait, wait. It’s not what you think. He helped me.” Geralt actually growls, his furry reaching new heights. “He did not do it out of the goodness of his heart, I know he used me. But, Geralt, I was living in the streets back then. He gave me a roof over my head and regular meals. When I chose to leave he didn’t even try to stop me. It wasn’t always nice, that's true, but it was safe. Or safer anyway.”

Jaskier can feel Geralt’s hand flexing repeatedly under his own on the doorknob. He notices his friend’s jaw working, neck thick with strain as Geralt rolls his shoulders, breathing through his nose. Jaskier has only rarely seen him like this and doesn’t know what to do. So he remains here, rubbing small circles with his thumb on Geralt’s hand, waiting.

Eventually, Geralt takes one last deep breath and seems to deflate. 

“If he ever bothers you again, tell me.”

Geralt’s eyes are so earnest, so clearly worried and full of care that all Jaskier can do is nod dumbly and actually hug the man. Geralt freezes for a second, obviously surprised by the sudden display of affection he’s being subjected to, but he still raises a hand to rest on Jaskier’s hip.

Jaskier has rarely ever mattered to anyone enough to be worth protecting in such a way. Of course some of his friends would come to his help if asked, in a heartbeat. But being given an actual proof of Geralt’s care for him, witnessing his ferocious protectiveness over him, is still very emotional. It is settling. It is reassuring. It feels like finally coming home and being safe again. 

&&

1255

Today, Jaskier is turning thirty-three. He doesn’t look it, but somehow he feels heavier for it anyway, as if time is staking up on his back, growing heavier with every passing year and setting deeper in his bones. It’s not a bad feeling. The more times goes, the more grounded he feels. 

They’re in the middle of absolutely nowhere. The Blue Mountains are rising majestically in the distance, dwarfing the vast forest resting at its feet. Autumn is just starting but this far north, the trees are already blooming in oranges and reds. In the low afternoon sun, everything has taken an ethereal air.

Jaskier is setting up camp, stopping every few minutes to appreciate the colors, breathe deep the musty smell of the undergrowth. It is far too early for them to stop, they could still have gone for a couple hours at least, but for some reason Geralt had asked to stop here. When asked why, he’d only hummed noncomitaly. As soon as he’d settled Roach, he’d gone deeper in the forest, announcing he’d be hunting their dinner. 

So Jaskier is alone for now as he builds up the cooking fire and lays out their bedrolls. He hasn’t said anything about his birthday to Geralt. The witcher is not big on celebrating his own -Jaskier usually ignores him and drags him to the nearest tavern to party anyway. He’ll probably hint at it next time they’re in town, just so they have an excuse to get shit faced.

He’s putting water to boil for some tea when he hears Geralt coming back. He doesn’t turn, focused on fanning the weak fire.

“Welcome back darling, tea will be ready soon.”

Geralt’s footsteps are getting closer and closer until something is delicately placed on Jaskier’s head. The bard sits up and lifts a hand to his hair. He looks up to Geralt as he gently touches the leaves and flowers now adorning his head. The witcher’s face is carefully blank but for a definite softness in his eyes. To his astonishment, he looks a bit flush. 

“Happy birthday Jas.”

Jaskier gasps. He stands up and takes off the crown to better admire it. Wine red and bright yellow leaves are intertwined with soft red twigs and long dried grass. And here and there, dotted all around the crown, small purple crocus 

With slightly shaky hands, Jaskier puts the crown back on his head. His smile is too wide to be flattering, his cheeks are probably tinted red by joy and his eyes must be shining with emotions. Jaskier couldn’t care less right now.

Geralt loves him. Maybe not as much as Jaskier would like, but right now it doesn’t matter. Geralt remembered his birthday. He cared enough to make something for him. Jaskier’s heart is beating like crazy in his chest as he beams at Geralt before dropping a kiss on his friend’s cheek. Life is good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started writting this fic, I hadn't planned for it to turn out so full of fluff but here it is so hey, let's go full cute I guess :D  
> Next chapter will be out on tuesday, just two chapters left ! Last chapter is still in writting, it just keeps getting longer (it's already 4000 words and still not done ...)  
> I hope you liked this chapter, leave a comment to let me know (I love comments).  
> See yall soon !


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone :D  
> I won't be able to post tomorrow morning so here the next chapter a few hours early !  
> Bonne lecture yall

As Roach gallops wildly, hopefully carrying them to some kind of doctor, Jaskier thinks that he’s probably not as scared as he should be. Maybe it’s the shock, maybe it’s the intense physical pain numbing his emotions, but really, he’s not that scared. 

He hacks up a wretched cough, spraying blood all over himself and Roach, instantly feeling bad for sullying her coat. Geralt’s hand, the only thing currently holding him up on the saddle, presses him just a bit harder back against Geralt’s chest. The witcher is murmuring softs reassurances and Jaskier is actually more distressed at being unable to focus on the words enough to remember them than by his wound. 

He probably passes out for a bit because one moment he is in a tent, being looked over by an elf and the next, he is sitting on a table next to Geralt as an old, fully naked man tells him something about apple juice ? And then there are some more naked people and things simply get far too confusing.

As if this day could get any weirder, he finally wakes up feeling much better, only to have his manhood threatened by a terrifyingly beautiful witch asking him to make a wish ? He runs away the first chance he gets, only too happy to leave the woman to her foreboding chanting. Geralt is right outside. He looks like shit, dishevelled and covered in dirt, dark circles bruising his eyes. He’s the most beautiful thing Jaskier has ever seen. 

Jaskier has just had an exhausting day. He’s still covered in his own blood and his throat is healed but still too raw for him to sing, but he’s fine. All in all, Jaskier considers himself okay given all he’s been through today. 

That is, until he watches the love of his life run into a falling building, then thinks him dead only to finally see him losing himself into the intimidating witch. This is just on this side of too much for Jaskier.

&&

He’s not naive, nor is he stupid. Jaskier doesn’t begrudge Geralt the pleasure he finds in the arms of others. It’s not like Jaskier has any claim on his friend. He’s never hinted at his feeling for the man -other than in his lovesick songs but well, he can’t expect Geralt to make the connection- has never openly made a move on him - other than when he washes his hair for far longer than necessary, lathers his muscular legs, massages his aching back - and alright no one has ever accused Jaskier of being subtle but his point stands. He doesn’t expect Geralt to remain celibate just to spare Jaskier some heartbreak. He’s not a monk himself either.

They’ve been traveling together for almost two decades. Jaskier has seen Geralt follow countless women to their bed, has encouraged timid souls to court his friend, hell he’s even paid him nights at brothels as birthday gifts. Jaskier only wants his friend to be happy and fulfilled, even if his lungs squeeze painfully every single time it happens. 

Still, the swiftness with which Geralt clearly falls for Yennefer of Vengerberg stings something fierce. 

&&

The thing that truly pains Jaskier is that they just. Keep. On. Meeting her. 

They don’t go looking for her at all. Even though Jaskier sees how Geralt sometimes looks in the distance, sighing like a lovelorn fool, they never talk about her when she’s not here and they don’t go running after every rumor of witches nearby. And yet, every few weeks, like clockwork, they’ll walk into a tavern only to find her already sitting at a table. 

From there on, it all feels like a badly rehearsed play to Jaskier. Geralt will make a beeline to her table, ignoring everyone and everything in his way. He’ll sit next to her and grace her with one of his sweetly discreet smiles, which she’ll ignore in favor of delivering some witty insult about his looks. Geralt will chuckle as if this was some cherished timeworn inside joke. They’ll stay there, barely speaking, for all of twenty minutes before running to whichever room is nearest, where they’ll spend the night loudly pleasing one another, only for Yennefer to leave come morning without a look back at a miserable Geralt. 

Jaskier is currently living through one such evening. As per usual, he’s seated himself in front of the couple - ouch - sipping at his tasteless ale as he prepares for the oncoming show. He’s grown used to turning invisible the minute Yennefer walks back into their life, he’s fine with it - even though really, he’s not. 

Simply put, Jaskier doesn’t like Yennefer. At all. He is self conscious enough to admit that part of it is petty jealousy. And yet, he still finds a guilty pleasure at exchanging barbs with her, he acknowledges her intellect, her beauty and her strength. But despite it all, he still doesn’t like her, because she is not nice. She never gives Geralt any of the attention or care he deserves, she belittles him far too often and whenever they do talk for more than five minutes they usually end up fighting. Jaskier doesn’t understand their relationship. Neither of them seem happier for it and he, for one, won’t pretend to like it one bit. 

It’s the part of the evening where things start to get out of hand, hot murmurs whispered to one another in anticipation of what’s to come. One of Geralt’s hands has disappeared under the table and Jaskier is trying his hardest not to think about it. 

He is not in the mood. Actually, he thinks, huffing loudly in his drink, he’s done being sad and maudling. He leaves the table without a word, downing his mug and grabbing his lute. The inn is full of people made merry by a good harvest and it doesn’t take long before most of them start to sing along. Jaskier wants to clear his mind of a certain witcher and so he turns his back to the corner table where he left his friend during the whole show, fully expecting him to be gone by the time it's over. 

Jaskier has grown more confident as of late. He knows himself well enough to embrace his feelings and wishes without any more shame or doubt. And he loves Geralt to bits, truly he is more than happy to dedicate most of his time to caring for the man. But not tonight. Tonight is about Jaskier and about him only.

And so when he catches an appreciative stare coming from a tall sandy haired man standing at the bar, there’s no hesitation in his mind - Jaskier winks at him. He finishes his last song with a flourish, sending kisses to his audience and gathering his coin. When he arrives near the counter, an ale is already waiting for him. They chat for some time, testing the waters - Anthon is a farmhand at the estate up north, freshly arrived in town to spend the coin he saved during harvest. He is funny, handsome and warm, oh so warm under Jaskier’s hand it is almost heady - or maybe that’s the fourth ale. They’re standing far closer than is strictly necessary, flirting and enjoying every step of the chase. 

Anthon leans over Jaskier to grab the new bottle of wine he just ordered and drops a kiss on his neck as he goes. A pleasant shiver runs up Jaskier's spine and he lets his hand slide down the man’s back, stopping just above his backside, thumbing the hem of his pants in clear invitation. 

Anthon turns to him, smiling then all at once, freezes. Confused, Jaskier stops and goes to retrieve his hand but Anthon catches it in his own and squeezes it gently, bringing it to his lips for a kiss, all the while looking somewhere behind Jaskier’s right shoulder. He can feel the mischievous smile growing against his fingers as Anthon chuckles.

“Looks like someone is angry.”

Jaskier, too tipsy to care about discretion, turns to follow Anthon eyes. He is faced by an icy glare and a sullen frown. Geralt looks down the second he is found out but the scowl remains fixed on his face. Anthon is right behind Jaskier now, both hands on his hips.

“Is it going to be a problem ?” He whispers sweetly directly against Jaskier’s ear. He flexes his hands and brings Jaskier flush against him. Jaskier gasps at the feeling of the body pressed against his own, the warm breath of Anthon caressing his cheek as he speaks. Geralt looks up, as if hearing him, and their eyes meet. 

Jaskier doesn’t know how to interpret what he sees in Geralt’s gaze. Yennefer is practically sitting on the witcher’s lap now, face sensually pressed against his neck, and yet Geralt is looking at him. 

But Jaskier knows what he wants. And right now, what he wants is a willing partner with whom to spend the night.

“No,” he answers, clearly mouthing his answer. “Ignore it.”

Let Geralt make what he wants of this. Because tonight, tonight is not about the witcher. It’s about Jaskier. 

&&

It kind of becomes a thing. Every time they meet Yennefer, Jaskier spends the night with someone too. If these someones are always men taller and broader than he is, well, it’s no one’s business but his own. 

And every time, Geralt glares.

&&

It is not supposed to go this way. 

Geralt has accepted a contract on a couple of griffins, hiding somewhere by the river east of White Orchard. On the way there, they actually meet with Lambert, who’s on his way to kill the griffins too. Though he’s met with Eskel several times over the years, it’s the first time Jaskier meets the witcher. 

He is smaller than both his brothers but not less impressively strong. His short hair and sharp face accentuate his wolf like smile as Geralt introduces him.

“Geralt had not said anything about your good looks, lark. A real pleasure to meet you,” he greets, fingers caressing Jaskier’s hand suggestively. Jaskier is so surprised by the compliment that he doesn’t really think much before answering in kind.

“Neither did he say anything about his most handsome brother it seems,” earning a boisterous and lively laugh from the smaller man.

Next to them, Geralt sneers and huffs, turning back toward the sloping trail leading to the river. They’ve left most of their belongings at the inn, including Roach. Geralt has only allowed Jaskier to come under duress - Jaskier has never seen a griffin from up close, and it’s not with Geralt’s pisspoor description that he's ever going to be able to write anything about it, thank you very much. 

Both witchers are expert at tracking and it doesn’t take long before they pinpoint the nest.

“You stay here.”

“Yes, Geralt darling.”

“I mean it, Jas,” Geralt steps up to him gently knocking the bard’s arm with his closed fist. Behind him, Lambert is downing three potions in a row, burping loudly once he’s done. “Griffins are no joke.”

Though Jaskier is a bit annoyed at being forced to stay behind, he can read the worry plainly written on Geralt’s face. Ever since the djinn, his friend has been terribly careful about keeping the bard as far away from monsters as he possibly can. Sometimes, Jaskier swears he sees the witcher eyeing his throat, as if looking for some lingering trace of the attack. He pats Geralt’s chest a few times. 

“I’ll stay here Geralt, I promise.”

Geralt stares at him some more, as if trying to ascertain his sincerity. Lambert sights dramatically before grabbing his brother’s arm.

“We’ll be back in a blink songbird, enjoy the show.”

Jaskier waves at them and settles against a tree, following their progress through the clearing below. There is not much to see yet except for the empty nest full of branches and clean bones, an aesthetic Jaskier kind of actually likes- not that he’ll ever admit it.

The witchers set a small bundle on fire and wait. Nothing happens for a while, smoke slowly rising from the ground and dancing in the wind innocently. But then twin screeches pierce the sky as blurry shapes fall straight on the witchers. From his vantage point, Jaskier can easily see the fight and he looks on avidly, taking notes of certain details for his oncoming song. The wide featherless chest, the enormous wingspan, the deathly black beak and the soft creamy feathers will make it a hit. 

Everything is going well for now, the witchers fighting the two creatures back to back. Using both signs and silver swords, they keep the griffins at bay while still wounding them enough to keep them on the ground. When one tries to take off, Geralt uses his crossbow and shoots its wing with a bolt. The griffin swipes widely at them in retaliation, catching Geralt in the arm. From there, it all goes to shit surprisingly fast.

Geralt's sword goes flying to the ground, out of reach from either witchers. He unsheathes his steel sword but Jaskier knows it won't help much against the monsters. Geralt uses Axi against the griffin nearest to him and Lambert manages to land a powerful blow.

Unfortunately, driven by pain and panic, the creature runs at Lambert full speed and crashes against him. Under the powerful impact, the man is thrown down and ends up pinned to the ground by the now dead griffin's massive corpse.

That leaves Geralt alone to face the enraged surviving beast, unarmed. Holding his steel sword, arm bleeding sluggishly, the witcher circles the monster, waiting. When it attacks, he is ready. Still, his weapon is no match to the creature's thick skin. The griffin rears up and uses its talons to grip Geralt's shoulder, pulling once sharply. Geralt's scream resonates in the clearing. He manages to cast Aard, pushing the beast away before falling on his knees in front of the griffin.

Jaskier's heart stops as he looks over the scene. Cold sweat runs down his back as it unfolds, a strange dizziness warping his feelings into a burning ball of dread, bile rising on his tongue.

He is already running when Geralt screams in pain. When his friend's knees touch the dirt, Jaskier's hand is closing around the hilt of the forgotten silver sword. He gets in front of Geralt and lunges at the beast, screaming from the top of his lungs, except he actually screams. The griffin freezes as it prepares to strike the last blow, magic binding its limbs and Jaskier doesn’t think twice before he swings the sword. The blade easily cuts deep into the griffin’s throat, blood splaying all over Jaskier, before ending its arc. Jaskier is panting from the sprint, from the stress, from the adrenaline still coursing fast in his veins. He feels the scorching crimson mask painted over his face in hot gore by the pumping gash. 

After what feels like an eternity, the monster falls at his feet, dead. 

All three men are staring at the defeated griffin in awe. Lambert’s dazed voice sounds loud in the silence.

“Fuck me, that’s hot. That’s totally an invitation by the way.”

“Lambert !”

&&

His strength has grown along his confidence, Jaskier reflects as he helps Geralt lift the dead griffin to free Lambert. The silver sword doesn’t feel as heavy as it used to when he hands it back to Geralt under his brother’s teasing. As a teen, he’d frozen when confronted to death and pain. Now, though he still despises it, Jaskier knows he can handle both. It is from this knowledge that he drew enough power to stop a magical creature thrice his size - from the fright also but lets focus on what really matters shall we. 

Since he started travelling with Geralt, Jaskier has learned to know himself and he is all the stronger for it. 

&&

As he climbs down the Dragon Mountain, sobbing, he thinks that no amount of strength could have prevented his heart from shattering at Geralt’s feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Lambert so much <3 No filter boy is best boy
> 
> Next and last chapter will be up on friday ! It's already ten pages long, still going... I can't seem to put an end to this fic haha
> 
> Anyway I hope you liked this little chapter, a bit more serious than the previous ones. Let me know :D
> 
> See you at the end of the week for the last chapter !


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody :D  
> To celebrate the 100 kudos, I'm posting this last chapter a bit early !
> 
> Bonne lecture

Once he’s spent two weeks drinking his way through the countryside, Jaskier is not sure what to do. He doesn’t feel like travelling right now, he wants to lie low to lick his wounds. He thinks about going to Novigrad to find comfort in Priscilla’s friendship but he dismisses it for the same reason. He needs some solitude. 

In the end, it’s once more Dijkstra that comes around to give some direction to his life. Or rather a letter from Dijkstra. This time he’s asking Jaskier to go to Cintra for a few months. Tension is growing and the spymaster wants someone there.

Taking on Julian Alfred Pankratz’s persona feels like wearing an ill fitting doublet from too long ago but Jaskier finds some pleasure in slipping back into the spying trade. It is a welcomed diversion to his bleeding broken heart.

Jaskier knows Geralt probably didn’t mean what he said. The witcher is usually honest to a fault, true, but his mediocre handle on emotions has been known to make him behave erratically. Some years back, Jaskier would probably have had a hard time seeing through his pain and insecurities. Two decades with Geralt, and even more so a life of singing about emotions, have built his confidence along with his understanding of others and especially of course, of the witcher. Despite the heartbreak, Jaskier can’t help but still love Geralt. 

So yes, he knows Geralt’s words weren’t necessarily the truth. It’s painful anyway. 

Jaskier loses himself in Julian in the weeks he spends at Cintra. He tries to get a glimpse of Geralt’s Child Surprise but Calanthe keeps her close at all times and Jaskier information gathering takes up most of his time. Still, he manages to see her a few times and Jaskier’s breath is taken away.

He is on his way to Novigrad to report three months later when he hears the news. Cintra has been burnt to the ground, every citizen massacred. Calanthe is dead and no one knows what happened to the princess. 

Jaskier drops everything on the spot and goes back to the city. He has to find her.

He can’t get too close to Cintra. Nilfgaardian soldiers roam the lands, obviously looking for something. Or someone Jaskier repeats to himself like a hopeful mantra. He’s forced further north by the incoming army slowly moving from the southern border and gathering for new incoming battles. 

He is travelling far from the main roads, keeping to the woods as much as he can but he still needs to check on every refugee camp he crosses just in case. There are a few close calls during which he often ends up tucked behind trees for hours on end. 

Unfortunately, his efforts are for naughts. He doesn’t find Cirilla among the refugees in the three weeks he’s been trying to locate her. Instead, the Nilfgadians find him.

&&

They’ve put him in fucking iron shackles. They probably don’t know he’s fae, Jaskier has never talked to anyone about it after all. His wrist burn and Jaskier feels distressingly cut out from the world, his magic reduced to nothing under the metal. 

He’s not sure why they’ve taken him at first. He ditched his most extravagant clothes some time ago already, the only thing that sets him apart from his lute, but bards are not so rare that he would stand out in a crowd. He realises his mistake when a soldier enters the tent they’d just thrown him in. 

“So. You’re the witcher’s bard.”

Dread overwhelms him but he hides it all under a mask of confidence. Fuck.

“I am indeed a bard. But I don’t belong to any witcher dear sir, I believe there’s been a mistake.”

He stops himself from flinching when the soldier walks closer. The chains on his wrists cling loudly as Jaskier steps back. The soldier chuckles at this. He kneels and grabs the end of the chain, tugging it violently. Jaskier is jerked forward and falls painfully on one knee. 

“I don’t think so. Jaskier the humble bard has been to enough courts that his face is well known around this part. We have questions for you.”

“I’ll be sure to answer any questions of yours once you’ve taken these chains away I’m sure.”

“Don’t you dare think me a fool!” The soldier tugs once more, this time sending Jaskier sprawling in the dirt. “You will stay here bard, and you will tell us everything we want to know about the witcher and the princess.”

Pained by the sudden move and the burning iron, Jaskier is too stunned to stop the man from dragging him to the center of the tent where he secures the chain with a lock around the top of the main mat. 

“There’s been a mistake, you can’t keep me here.” Jaskier is cut in his rant by a strong punch to his gut. Prevented from curling around the pain by the chain, he folds awkwardly, tries to regain his breath as the soldier laughs meanly.

“You’ll find I can do whatever I want bard.”

The following drays prove him right unfortunately. Soldiers come and go from the tent, punching Jaskier black and blue. He spends a very unpleasant afternoon being repeatedly dunked into the trough each time he refuses to answer the captain’s questions. Jaskier doesn’t even know the answer to most -he’s not seen Geralt in months now, hasn’t managed to find Cirilla either- but he keeps his mouth shut anyway. It wouldn’t do to get too confident in his ability not to drop any useful hints as he goes. So he sings instead. The most annoying songs he’s ever learned and composed, he sings as loudly as he can just to have something to focus on other than the pain as they beat him day in and day out. It works a little too well maybe in rilling them up and he finds himself gagged for a whole day, which is rather counterproductive to getting him to talk if you ask him. 

But despite his best efforts, they are starting to get to him. He can’t feel his bound hands anymore, his eyes are almost completely swollen shut. His shoulders hurt from having to keep his arms up. He hasn’t eaten in days and what little water he managed to drink when they were keeping his head in the through wasn’t nearly enough to quench his thirst. 

They never take his iron shackles off, depriving him from his one concrete chance at escaping. The captain is the one keeping the keys but Jaskier only sees him once a day, every morning when he comes to ask the same question with a cruel smirk.

“Ready to talk ?”

And every morning, Jaskier says no. He manages to spit on his face the first day, which earns him a thorough beating and two broken fingers. Still worth it. 

With every hour that goes, Jaskier’s hope at escaping drops, and his mood with it. The cut on his forehead throbs to the rhythm of his heart, blood still flowing from the wound and onto his face. As he watches his blood slowly dripping on the ground, Jaskier wonders. Had he known how it would end, would he have done things differently ? 

Would he still have spent half of his life trailing after a witcher that did not love him as he wished, travelling the Continent to sing his praise to every willing ear ? Or would he have settled down in one of the many courts he’d been offered a place at ? Would he have even become a bard in the first place ?

He’s maudling he knows, but Jaskier kinda feels he is entitled to it given the circumstances. Night is quickly falling and the cold air settles deeper and deeper in his abused flesh. He feels himself starting to drift away, made lighter and lighter with every breath, made numb by cold and fatigue. He needs the rest, Jaskier tells himself. He closes his eyes and lets his mind wander through disjointed memories, finding comfort in their warmth. Just for a second, he thinks, darkness slowly swallowing him whole. 

Just for a moment. 

&&

“Wake up lark.”

The urgent whisper, followed by a soft shake, tears a quiet moan out of Jaskier. He has a hard time waking up. He feels cold and slow, he has to blink several times to make sense of what’s in front of him. 

It’s night now, silence has fully settled over the Nilfgardian camp, sounds of the surrounding forest and the crackling fires barely breaking it. A faint orange light shines through the tent’s fabric, just enough for Jaskier to make out the outline of the person standing in front of him.

“Lambert,” the harsh whisper comes from Jaskier’s right. As he looks, he notices a long tear in the tent. “Lambert, have you found him ?”

Lambert, for Jaskier now recognizes him with joyful shock, shushes the voice only to answer in kind.

“Yes, he’s here. He’s in shit shape.”

Before he’s even finished his sentence, someone walks hurriedly through the tear, drawing a sharp breath when they see Jaskier. The bard, still drowsy and exhausted, can nonetheless feel his heart giving a valiant effort at speeding up when he sees Geralt’s beautiful eyes looking back at him, full of a furious sadness.

“Geralt ?”

“I’m here. I’m here Jas, we’ve come to help.” 

Lambert is already working on the lock, swearing profusely under his breath until it finally gives. It is excruciating to finally let his arms down and Jaskier can’t help a small cry as strained muscles are forced into moving again. Geralt is there in an instant, one arm around his waist, the other catching his elbows to slow the fall and lessen the pain. 

“Ouch,” Jaskier lets out for good measure, earning a snicker from Lambert. Geralt is looking at him now, eyes searching all over, inventorying every little scratch. The witcher hisses when he sees the distressing bent of several of Jaskier’s fingers. Geralt pulls him against his chest and eyes the tent’s entrance, the camp beyond and all the soldiers littered around the fires. His lips lift in an enraged snarl and Jaskier can actually feel the growl rolling in Geralt’s chest. 

“We don’t have time for this Geralt. We have to go.”

Geralt huffs forcefully through his nose a few times and nods. Lambert pulls the fabric to open the tear wider as Geralt leads Jaskier out. His hands are still trapped in the shackles, Geralt holding the end of the chain so it doesn’t clink. Jaskier wobbles when he sees the fresh corpse of a soldier right by the exit and Geralt is immediately there, an arm around his waist to take on some of his weight. 

“There’s too many of them,” Geralt whispers apologetically. “It’s safer to run for now.”

Jaskier nods. Right now he really couldn’t care less about his tormentors as long as the witchers get him out of here. They walk through the dark undergrowth as fast as Jaskier’s legs will allow. He is shaky and out of breath by the time they reach a small clearing where two horses are waiting.

“Roach,” Jaskier calls, voice breaking. How he’d miss her, he thinks as she walks slowly to him and munches playfully at his tattered shirt. He laughs then winces as it pulls on his bruised ribs. Geralt helps him up and joins him on Roach just as Lambert gets on his own black horse. 

The ride is atrocious, his body unable to withstand the jostling. Jaskier loses focus for some time but he can still hear Geralt’s encouragement through the pain.

“You’re so brave, hold on just a bit more, we’re almost there. Stay with me Jas, stay with me.”

As always unable to refuse his witcher anything, Jaskier holds on to consciousness until finally, they stop. 

“Hand him over.”

Geralt gently slides Jaskier out of the saddle into Eskel’s waiting arms. Jaskier is far too tired to complain at being handed around like a doll and lets himself be carried to a bedroll laid out near a blazing fire, chasing away some of autumn chill. 

“He is okay ?”

The small voice wobbles slightly. Jaskier turns his head and immediately recognizes Cirilla’s white blonde hair and soft features.

“Thank the gods you found her”, he manages to say before Geralt kneels next to him. The witcher uses a lockpick to deftly open the manacles, throwing them far away with a disgusted grunt. Jaskier's wrists are raw, scabbed all over, skin an angry red from the iron. Geralt lays his hand down carefully and starts undressing him to better assess the expanse of his wounds. Lambert is recounting their rescue to Eskel and Cirilla, putting water to boil and gathering rolls of bandages as he speaks. Jaskier is doing his best not to scare the girl too much but it is hard to contain his cries when Geralt grabs his elbow to take a closer look at his fingers. Eskel kneels next to them too and hisses at the sight. 

“Setting them is going to hurt like fuck.”

“Not in front of the lady,” Jaskier answers with a shaky voice. The joke falls flat but Cirilla’s face loses some of its grimness. He still calls it a win.

“We can give you a draught, put you to sleep while we treat the worst of it,” Geralt offers, gently brushing Jaskier’s hair out of his face. Everything is suddenly catching up to him and Jaskier's throat feels too tight to speak. He nods a few times and Lambert hands them a small vial. With Geralt’s help, Jaskier drinks it all in one go. It’s not long before sleep dulls his senses and he closes his eyes to Geralt’s voice.

“Sleep now. You’re safe. I’m here Jas.”

&&

It is still night when he wakes up -whether it is the same day or the next he can’t say. Everyone is sleeping around the fire, bundled up in their sleeping rolls.

Everyone but Geralt that is.

Once he spots the witcher, Jaskier tries to sit up. Geralt is next to him in an instant, helping him up. He hands him a full waterskin that Jaskier almost empties in one go. Once done, he nods his thanks and looks down at his bandaged hand.

“What’s the verdict then ?” he whispers, vaguely waving at his injuries.

“Mostly cuts and bruises”, Geralt answers in a breath. “You have at least two cracked ribs and we’ll have to keep an eye on your lungs, your breath is a bit too short and loud but it could be from the pain.” He frowns and looks into the fire as he finishes. “Your fingers should be fine. The breaks were clean. You won’t be able to play for some time but it should all be back to normal in a couple months.”

Jaskier hums thoughtfully, raising his damaged fingers, looking at the purpled skin showing through the bandages. “Thanks for patching me up. And thank you for coming to help in the first place too.”

Geralt hums, eyes still stubbornly fixed on the fire. “When”, he stops there, fists closing tightly as he takes in a deep breath. “When we heard the Nilfgardian patrol in town had captured a bard for questioning, I knew it was you. I had to do something.”

“How come you were all here ?” Jaskier asks when Geralt falls silent. 

“I found Ciri a couple weeks back. We’re going to Kaer Morhen, it’s the safest place for her right now. We met Eskel and Lambert on the way. They’ve been trying to avoid patrols too. For Nilfgard to have come this far north already …” Geralt sights, shoulder sagging. “We’ll have to hurry to prevent any more trouble.”

Jaskier’s heart squeezes painfully at that. 

“Don’t worry I’ll be out of your hair come morning.”

Geralt startles and finally turns to face him. “What ?”

“Now that I know Cirilla is safe, there’s no reason for me to stay on the roads. I’ll head to Novigrad at sunup. It’s still a free city and should remain so for the time being.” He huffs, thinking of the report he failed to give to a certain spymaster all those weeks ago. “I still have some unfinished business there with Dijkstra anyway, he’ll make sure Julian Alfred Pankratz is alright.”

“No.” Geralt says forcefully, eyes serious and voice raising suddenly. “You’re coming with us to the keep.”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to be confused. He frowns, stutters a few words before he finally asks. “I’m sorry what ?” 

“You’re coming to Kaer Morhen”, Geralt repeats, like this is somehow a matter of course.

“No. I am not.” Is all Jaskier can say, feeling his previous months old heartbreak slowly morphing into searing anger.

“They’ll be looking for you Jas. Even in Novigrad, they’ll be able to get to you. It’s safer this way.” Geralt nods to himself, as if closing the matter.

“No.” Jaskier puts a hand up, cutting Geralt before he can speak anymore nonsense. Jaskier is so done with this. “No, you don’t get to do this Geralt. No matter how grateful I am that you saved me, you don’t get to just waltz back into my life like nothing happened and make decisions for me. You lost any right you might have had when you fucking broke my heart on that montain !”

By the time he is done, Jaskier is shouting. The audacity of this man infuriates Jaskier in ways he didn’t think possible. His current physical state and the fresh memories of the past few days are probably not helping him to keep a leash on his boiling emotions and right now, he doesn’t care. He wheezes loudly, pained by his ribs and his bleeding heart. He deserves better than that. 

Geralt freezes. He’s still looking at Jaskier, watching him silently, face blank as ever. Nothing happens and Jaskier is just about to give it all up as a lost cause when Geralt finally, finally speaks up.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is small and he quickly drops his gaze. He fidgets, hands twisting the leather strap of his belt nervously on his lap. His face remains calm, though Jaskier still notices the uneasy twitch of his lips. “I never should have said that. I was …” He frowns, looking for the right words. Jaskier, knowing how hard it usually is for Geralt to speak of his emotions, waits. “I was angry. I knew what Yennefer and I might have been influenced by the djinn’s magic, but to think it was the only reason she’d ever been with me was … It was painful.”

Geralt looks up and Jaskier is momentarily made speechless by the raw emotions on his friend’s face. 

“Truth is I never understood why you travelled with me”, Geralt continues. “It’s dangerous, there’s none of the comfort you enjoy and I know I am not the best company. It makes no sense to me. That day, after the whole thing with Yennefer, I just couldn’t see what possible reason you had to stay with me. It scared me. I lashed out. I’m sorry Jas.”

Jaskier takes a moment to let it all sink. He’d known Geralt hadn’t meant the words. It’s good to hear it said out loud still. It soothes some of the pain that has followed him all these time. And really, Jaskier thinks as he slowly takes Geralt’s fidgeting hand in his, what else is there to do other than to let go.

“You’re a moron.”

Geralt snorts and nods. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“All right”, Jaskier nods and squeezes Geralt’s hand gently. “I forgive you. I’m still angry though.”

“I know” Geralt shuffles closer hesitantly, and closer still when Jaskier doesn’t protest. He brings their foreheads together, his free hand softly coming to rest on Jaskier’s neck. “I’m sorry” he repeats. 

“I would punch you in the face if I didn’t think it’d break my fingers all over again.” He closes his eyes and breathes in deep, enjoying the smell of leather, musk and warmth he’d come to associate with Geralt. 

“Please don’t do that”, Geralt chuckles with a pained frown. 

“It would serve you right”, Jaskier whispers sleepily, lulled by this newly recovered sense of serenity. They remain that way for a few seconds, enjoying the peace.

Of course, Lambert just has to ruin it all.

“Well”, his raspy voice brusquely coming to break the peace. “That was awkward.”

This sets off Cirilla and Eskel, who each giggle and snort loudly. Jaskier can’t help but join in once the embarrassment fades. Already half asleep, he barely feels Geralt gently lay him back down on the bedroll.

&&

The next morning, as they prepare to leave after a quick breakfast, Jaskier looks around and sees Geralt’s bedroll, all packed up and forgotten behind a log. A wave of fondness overcomes him and he ends up giggling maddly, painfully restrained by his ribs but loud nonetheless. Everyone is looking at him like he has suddenly gone crazy and Geralt kneels slowly in front of him, a curious look on his face. 

Jaskier points at the bedroll, still snickering. When Geralt notices it, he lowers his head sheepishly and chuckles silently.

They’ll be okay.

&&

It takes four days for them to reach the last village before the trail up to the keep begins. Jaskier spends it mostly dozing in Roach’s saddle and yet he is still exhausted when they arrive. Ciri is not at her best either and everyone agrees to spending one last night at the inn before the last exhausting leg of the journey starts. 

They rent three rooms, because Ciri wants her own and Geralt can’t refuse her anything, and order bathes because they clearly all need it. 

Just like old days, Jaskier shares his room with Gerat. When the bath is brought up and the staff starts to fill it up with blessedly hot water, it’s all Jaskier can do not to moan openly. The cold autumn air has not been conducive to a thorough cleaning and he still fills filthy from days spent at his captors hands. 

The moment the door closes behind the last girl, he starts pulling at his shirt. His splintered fingers make him far too clumsy to try and carefully undo the small buttons and he doesn’t have the patience right now. He doesn’t expect Geralt to walk up to him and start to undo them himself. The witcher looks at him, hands just above the first button.

“Okay ?” He asks calmly.

Jaskier can only nod as his heart soars at the sweet attention. Geralt starts undoing the bard’s doublet before carefully sliding his arms out of the sleeves, mindful of his many barely faded bruises. Even days later, his skin is still marred by discoloured patches of purplish greens and yellows. Geralt pulls his undershirt above his head and then kneels to unlace Jaskier’s boots. Once it’s done, he gestures vaguely at Jaskier’s pants and tells him he’ll ready the bath oils while Jaskier finishes.

Jaskier is soon standing stark naked in front of the wooden tub as Geralt carefully pours drops of jasmine oil in the steaming water. When Jaskier steps into the bath, he doesn’t try to restrain himself anymore and he moans loudly. The water is heavily on his strained muscles, the sweet smell of jasmine lulling him almost immediately into a light doze. 

He hears Geralt chuckle softly behind him seconds before he feels strong fingers meticulously starting to massage his neck. Hands heavily lathered in bubbly soap, Geralt rubs and cleans Jaskier’s neck, shoulders and arms, only ever stopping to inspect some of the most impressive marks on the bard’s skin. Jaskier is hypnotized by the rhythmic brush of Geralt’s hands and, were he in any shape, he most certainly would be in quite a state at the feeling of his friend’s calloused fingers on him. As it is, unable to physically channel his internal turmoil, Jaskier feels his emotions slowly bubbling up to the surface, barely contained under Geralt’s soft care. His feelings for the man swell with each careful stroke, each attentive pause when he reaches a new patch of damaged skin. When Geralt pours soapy water on his hair and massages it delicately, Jaskier simply can’t take it anymore.

Suddenly overwhelmed by his love for Geralt, unable to either repress or express it clearly, Jaskier starts sobbing quietly. 

“Jaskier ?” Geralt immediately lifts his hands and shuffles to stand next to him.” Jaskier, what’s wrong ?”

Jaskier shakes his head and tries to hide his face in his unarmed hand but Geralt gently pulls his hand away, kneeling next to the tub.

“What’s wrong ?” He whispers, a worried frown growing on his face. “Are you hurt ?”

Once more, Jaskier shakes his head, sniffing miserably at the sight of his friend worrying over his poorly handled emotional breakdown. He doesn’t know how to stop the tears now that they’ve started and, given Geralt’s slightly panicked face, neither does he. His hands are hovering hesitantly above the water, his eyes darting all around the room as if the answer to calming Jaskier might be hidden behind the wardrobe somehow. Seemingly at a loss and panicking, Geralt stands up fluidly and starts to move away.

“I’ll go get Eskel, maybe he’ll know how…” Before this emotionally stunted perfection of a man can say anything else, Jaskier feels the words forming on his tongue, almost as sweet as any of his White Wolf songs.

“I love you.” 

This stops Geralt right away. He turns back to look at Jaskier, eyes comically wide and mouth agape. Since he’s already blurted the whole truth, Jaskier just keeps on blablering, unable to contain the flow of words any longer. “I’m sorry, I love you. Actually scratch that, I’m not sorry. I love you and I love loving you. So much so that I don’t know how to handle it sometimes.”

The tears have slowed to a trickle once he’s finished but anxiousness is slowly building in his gut as he witnesses Geralt’s lack of reaction. The witcher is stunned, halfway across the room, arms lose against his sides and an unreadable expression on his face. Silence stretches between them and with each second that goes by, Jaskier’s tension rises a little more.

“Geralt, darling, please say something. You’re making me awfully nervous, I’m not asking for anything and you don’t even have to speak about it just... Wait, Geralt, what are you doing ?”

Just as Jaskier starts speaking, Geralt walks toward him, slowly at first then with more urgency. Once he’s reached the tub, he unceremoniously climbs in, still fully clothed, sending water crashing down on the floorboard when he kneels between Jaskier’s legs. He lifts his hands slowly, giving the bard every chance to move away, and cradles Jaskier’s face. 

“Geralt ?” Jaskier doesn’t understand what’s happening, doesn’t know how to react exactly and he falls back on his usual coping mechanism of prattling on until things start to make sense. “Are you alright ? If you wanted a bath this badly you only had to say the word, you’d have gone first.”

Geralt only watches him, searching, until he slides his fingers against Jaskier’s lips, pressing softly and effectively shutting him up. A slow smile lightens up Geralt’s face, eyes crinkling in mirth as he rests his forehead against Jaskier’s with a deep breath. 

“I love you.”

These three little words seem to hold some unknown power over Jaskier’s brain, for it all but stops functioning for an instant. He opens and closes his mouth stupidly a few times, pushes Geralt just far enough so that he can see his face clearly. 

“You love me ?” He asks, voice made much smaller than usual by all the emotions it contains. Geralt nods and hums in answer, still smiling. “Can I kiss you ?” 

Geralt nods again and it's all Jaskier needs before he all but jumps on Geralt’s, sliding his hand on the witcher’s neck as he finally brings their lips together.

&&

Nothing much happens in the direct aftermath of this first kiss. Jaskier is still exhausted and Geralt is much too mindful of the bard’s recent wounds to risk harming him. But as they lay on the bed, warmed by the bath and the roaring fire, Geralt’s head nestled in the crook of Jaskier’s neck as he plays with the witcher hair, Jaskier can’t help but think that no matter the hardships that he’s gone through up to this day, if it means he’ll get to stay with this man for however long they have, then it was all worth it.

“Dig within. Within is the wellspring of Good; and it is always ready to bubble up, if you just dig.”  
― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. 
> 
> This story was really self indulgent. I wanted something centered on Jaskier's journey of self discovery and self assertion and this is mostly what I'd had in mind, even if these boys have a way to just steer thing into fluffy situations.   
> It seems to be a trend in all my stories, I never thought of myself as such a helpless romantic haha  
> Anyway, thank you for reading this story, I hope you had a good time !
> 
> I already have some other ideas but, as always, I'll only start posting once it's mostly done. See you soon I guess :D


End file.
